


The Boy Beyond Time

by thepreciousthing



Category: Back to the Future (Movies), Doctor Who
Genre: Adventure, Crossover, Gen, Sci-Fi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-09-10
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2017-10-24 17:14:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/265911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepreciousthing/pseuds/thepreciousthing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor, Rory, and Amy investigate Hill Valley, a place where time is warped and twisted around the life of Marty McFly, a boy who remembers things that never happened. Meanwhile, Marty's learning that maybe the new reality he created with his time-traveling isn't as perfect as it seems. The clock is ticking, and the TARDIS crew must solve the mysteries surrounding Marty's life before time runs out for him... and the Universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lucky Town

_The Boy Beyond Time_

a Doctor Who / Back to the Future Crossover

 **Chapter 1**

* * *

 **SEPTEMBER, 1986**

"History. Just what the heck is history, anyway?"

He leaned heavily on the desk at the front of the lecture hall, drumming his fingers on the flat surface as he spoke. His head hung down a moment in thought, then looked back up, a sly grin on his face. His eyes scanned students packing the stadium seating, and his expression fell as he locked eyes with someone - "Oh, put your hand down, it was rhetorical." He shook his head. "Honestly, you try to open a speech, and there's always that one person - have you ever noticed that? You try to be big and dramatic, and..."

He stopped suddenly, and a thick silence fell over the room. The professor coughed. "Right. History. Just a record? We go through our day-to-day life, watching things happen, write 'em down in a book or a journal or in your little e-mail to your buddy - hold on, wait, is that a thing right now?" He reached into his tweed jacket and pulled out a pocket watch, looked at the face, and listened to it tick for a moment before slipping it back in the pocket. "Right, and then you tell it to your little friend in... _A_ mail. A letter, you know, the kind that takes a pen and paper, and you just..." he awkwardly mimed a scribble in the air. "You know, it's always nice to get a letter in the mail. There's something about the calligraphy, the effort, the sweet taste of adhesive when you seal... no, that's sending. Sorry."

Marty McFly stared at his professor, bewildered. He'd been psyched to take this section of American History. The professor was - according to the freshman rumor mill - _supposed_ a southern, elderly gentleman with a sense of humor and enough sense to get to the point when he spoke. Yet this man at the front talking was young - very young - and was clearly a sucker for tangents. He was British - that much could be gathered from his accent - and had a long, square jaw atop a tall, lanky figure, and a strange swept hairstyle that looked left over from a decade ago. Still, Marty guessed he couldn't be much older than one of the seniors here. Yet despite his age and his hair, he was dressed like he belonged in the thirties - Marty could tell, he had been there, after all. Tweed jacket and a bow tie? Who was this guy?

Marty half-expected the real professor to storm in and tell this kid to sit down and be quiet so the lesson could start, but it wasn't to be. As the man continued to rant and babble on about the philosophy and etymology and what history really meant, Marty hesitantly raised his hand.

"Now, see, I didn't even ask a question this time!" The man called, dramatically waving his hand in Marty's direction. "Martin McFly. How can I help you?"

Marty blinked, surprised. "How'd you know my name?"

The professor looked genuinely shocked, then narrowed his eyes in suspicion, stepping into the aisle between desks toward Marty, inspecting him close. "You raised your hand to ask me how I knew your name? Now that doesn't make sense, not at all." His voice grew soft and contemplative. "How did you know that I knew?"

"I- what? No!" Marty shook his head. "I just... are you Professor Bradley?"

"Professor Bradley?" The professor leaned back. "No! Sorry. He's gone. Vacation. Won the lottery. Lucky town, this!" He grinned. "No. I'm the Doctor."

Marty quirked an eyebrow. "Doctor what?"

The Doctor pressed his lips in a frown. "Not quite the pronoun I expected. Smith!" He nodded. "That's right, Doctor Smith. Just Doctor is fine." He clicked his tongue, then looked around the room idly. "So where was I going with this, again? Ah! Right!" He bounded back down the aisle, caught himself on the desk and spun to face his students. "History! We study what's recorded!" He slammed his palms on the desk and grinned. "But what about the stuff that isn't recorded? Behind the wars and the kings and the riots and the plagues there are _people._ Living, breathing people living their day to day lives."

Doctor Smith had this wide, giddy grin on his face. "And let me tell you, class - _they_ are the ones who change history. Not the kings or the presidents or the generals - just the every day people who make one choice that affects the course of history. One person in the right place at the right time changes everything. It could be as grand as an Archduke stopping for a sandwich that triggers a war..."

He paused then, and turned his head to look Marty straight in the eyes.

"...or as simple as a couple falling in love at a school dance in 1955, leading to the eventual birth of a special little boy."

Marty's heart stopped, and he felt his blood turn to ice. Doctor Smith was still staring right at him, a knowing smile on his face. Marty swallowed the lump in his throat and tried to act cool.

"Now, then!" Doctor Smith turned away, breaking the tension and reaching for the chalk. "This is American History, right? Well, then, let's start with Thomas Jefferson. Brilliant writer, bit of an awkward old bloke in public, though..."

* * *

"And he looked _right at me_ when he mentioned it."

Marty McFly's first day at Hill Valley University had been particularly uneventful - in fact, despite the hype that had been building up for years, he found it to be remarkably similar to a first day in High School: A droning day of syllabi and classroom etiquette speeches. Yet that moment in his eleven o'clock American History class still stuck out in his mind. When he got back to his dorm, he sat down at his desk and immediately dialed Doc Brown, a close friend he'd known since childhood - a local scientist responsible for building the world's first Time Machine, an invention Marty had gotten to experience more times than he'd ever planned.

One of his first time-travel adventures had been a trip to 1955 that had accidentally prevented his parents' first meeting, and their subsequent first kiss at the high school dance – and Marty had to personally engineer and micromanage their romance to prevent himself from fading out of existence.

When the good Doctor Smith described that moment in class, it had been... unsettling, to say the least.

On the other end of the line, Doc Brown was quiet for a moment before he finally answered. "Marty, speaking as a scientist, I don't believe in coincidence. There is a logical, scientific explanation for every event, though it may never be immediately apparent." Doc spoke slowly, obviously choosing his words carefully. "That said, it's simply not possible for him to be referring to our time-traveling exploits. There's simply no way he could ascertain knowledge of those events."

"But he did! He looked at me and mentioned the school dance - !"

"The story of sweethearts falling in love at a school function is a common romantic fantasy, Marty," Doc assured him, though he sounded unsure himself. "It's hardly unique to your own parents' lifetime."

Marty drummed his fingers on his desk, then combed his fingers through his short brown hair in exasperation. "But he specifically said 1955. Why would he say that?"

"It's not so strange, when you think about it." Doc said thoughtfully. "The late fifties would be the time most of your generation's parents would be falling in love. As for the year itself, the very foundation of our society is built on a base-ten numbering system. Think of tally marks, or counting on your hand. Though you may be consciously unaware of it, rounding things off by fives and tens is remarkably common."

Inspecting his hand, Marty couldn't help but silently agree, that did make sense. "So why did he look at me?"

"Did you draw any attention to yourself earlier in the class?"

Marty opened his mouth to answer, then closed it, the realization setting in. "Yeah, I did. I asked him a question, and... hey, you know, Doc, he knew my name before I ever told him. How do you explain that?"

"He knew your name?"

"Yeah. What teacher goes around memorizing his students' faces before the first day?"

"The ones that care," Doc answered without a thought, "though I agree that does appear a little overzealous. Still, perhaps the explanation is far simpler than I first imagined. Is it possible this Doctor Smith knows your parents?"

Marty hadn't considered that. "I guess that would explain him knowing my name..."

"...and how your parents met," Doc answered, and Marty could practically hear his smile. "Occam's Razor, Marty, my boy. While I'm never one to discard the merit of deep thought, sometimes it's best not to try and over-think a solution when a much simpler explanation is staring you in the face."

With a grin, Marty chuckled. "You, over-think things?" His tone was dry. "Nah, can't see that happening!"

There was a click somewhere behind him and Marty turned his head, watching his dorm room door open slowly. "Listen, Doc," Marty said, "my roommate's back, don't want to hog the phone. I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"Sure thing. Always a pleasure speaking with you!"

"Thanks, Doc. You, too." Marty grinned. "Bye!" He hung up and turned, greeting his roommate with that same grin. "Hey, Rory. How'd it go?"

His roommate, Rory Williams, was an average-looking guy. He was a transfer student from somewhere in England, with wide eyes and a prominent nose, and short, dirty-blond hair. His hair and clothes always seemed a bit disheveled, like he'd tried to keep clean and neat but simply had the bad luck to have it ruined by the struggles of everyday life. Constantly. It'd certainly explain how on-edge Rory could be at times.

"Oh, you know," Rory said with a shrug. "First day, classes, stress, all that." He dropped his books on his own desk and sorting through them. "How about you? Anything... unusual happen today?"

Marty shrugged, grabbing his guitar from its stand next to his desk and strumming idly, not bothering to plug it into the amp. "It was a day," he laughed, plucking out a tune. "Though... you're from England, right? Do you know any of the British professors?"

Rory paused. "Which one?"

"Doctor Smith. Tweed jacket, bow tie, that weird hairstyle..."

"Yeah, I know him," Rory said, sitting down, then pausing again. "I mean, I know of him. I've seen him, I mean, heard him talk."

Marty laughed. "All right, all right, I get it." He plucked out a scale, then - playing the guitar was a great way to keep his hands busy. It helped him think when he was stressed or confused, or just when he needed to clear his head. "It's just... I don't know, I had him for class today and he seemed kind of... weird to me."

Rory snickered. "A bit, yeah." He turned his neck to look at Marty. "Say, who was that on the phone? You called him 'Doc', was it a professor?"

Marty shook his head. "Just an old friend of mine," he said, pick still strumming along the guitar strings.

"Was it Old Man Brown?"

The guitar fell silent suddenly, and Marty looked at Rory, surprised. "You've already heard of him, huh?"

"Well..." Rory grinned awkwardly and shrugged, "you know, people talk. And, uh, I've... heard you two were friends, so I thought, maybe, you know, you might have... talked to him, since you called him Doc-"

"Yeah," Marty said with a chuckle. It was kind of funny how reserved and tightly-wound Rory was, the way he kept stumbling over his words and phrases. "Forget what you might have heard about him, because he's not a lunatic. A little crazy, sure, but it's the good kind of crazy."

"He sounds brilliant, actually." Rory turned back to his books. "Like someone else I know."

"He is, trust me. The guy's devoted his life to science, and it's been time well spent." Marty only noticed the double meaning behind his choice of words after he'd spoken, but he managed to suppress the chuckle. Even if he could tell Rory all about the time machine Doc had built, and the adventures they had... it's not like he'd ever believe them.

* * *

 **MAY, 1977**

The TARDIS shook and rumbled as it approached its destination, and Rory Williams had grown quite used to the ship's often erratic behavior as it reached a destination. He gripped the console railings tightly, trying to ignore the terrible grinding and screeching noises it made as it struggled to land.

"Sorry, sorry," the Doctor cried out over the noise, pulling levers and pushing buttons and twirling little twirly things upon the console, "she's still getting used to having her old form back, aren't you, Sexy?" He grinned, batting a wire playfully. There was no answer from the TARDIS, of course - at least not verbally, though the ship did rattle a bit harder for a moment, and Rory struggled to keep his arms in their sockets as he tried to keep steady.

"Doctor," Amy cried from Rory's left, "you can have your special moment later, can we get on with the landing?"

"Working on it," the Doctor called back, jimmying a gear shift.

The TARDIS is hardly what the average person might think of when it came to a time machine or a spaceship - a big, round, open control room with no indication of a front or back end, only an exit door on a far wall. Raised in the center of the control room was a console wrapped round a column. There were no windows to speak of, no indication that this object was flying through the vortex of time or the vacuum of space except for the fact that when you came out its little wooden doors, you were never in the same place you were when you entered.

There was a snap, a loud boom, and a hiss, and the TARDIS stopped moving, though there was enough leftover inertia to send Rory crashing to the ground. He stood up, supporting himself on the rail, and shook his head - ooh, he could already feel the whiplash coming on. He'd never get used to those landings.

"Now, that wasn't so bad, was it, Old Girl?" The Doctor said softly, his fingers running across the console. He looked up and grinned at his two companions. "Now, here we are! Hollywood, California, 1937, during Hollywood's Golden Age! Great place to stroll and just take in the atmosphere, maybe catch a premiere, provided we steer clear of Marilyn Monroe." He bounded off the console, opening the TARDIS doors and taking in the scenery, Amy and Rory following close behind. He stepped onto the grass near a street, and took in a deep breath. "Ah, the smell of... wait a second." He paused, sniffing again. "That's odd..."

"Welcome to Hill Valley," Amy called, and Rory and the Doctor both turned to look at her. "A nice place to live." She was staring at a sign near a brick wall, reading off its words. "Please drive carefully." She turned, raising an eyebrow at the Doctor. "Hollywood, yeah?"

The Doctor frowned, looking around. "Time's a little... off here," he mumbled, looking around. "Can't quite place it, but..." he paused, walking around, until he saw a young businessman holding a newspaper. "Excuse me, sir, could I see that a moment?" The Doctor already had it in his hands before he finished the question.

"Hey-!"

"Just a moment... ah, thank you, here it is." The Doctor handed it back and turned to his companions while the man shook his head in bewilderment. The Doctor smiled and nodded. "We're about forty years too late."

"In the wrong place," Rory added.

"Yes. Wrong place, wrong time. But... the TARDIS was quite sure of our location." He stepped back into the Police Box - the form his ship always took, a tiny blue box, but much bigger on the inside. He moved back to the console, bringing up some indecipherable chart on a screen. "Huh, that's funny."

"What?" Amy stepped behind him looking at the screen and cocking her head. "What is?"

"Everything," the Doctor muttered, cocking his head. He moved along the console, flipping buttons seemingly at random. "Time here is... warped. Stretched." He frowned, looking around, Rory and Amy flanking him, watching his movements. "Something about this place doesn't... match up with the rest of time, creating little... speed bumps and ditches." He looked back at Amy with a smile. "That's why we landed here and now, instead of where we were aiming. We're stuck in a proverbial Time Ditch."

"A time ditch?" Amy scoffed.

"So we're stuck here?" Rory looked around, unsure how the TARDIS could be stuck in a ditch. The ground had seemed perfectly solid outside, but then, this whole time-travel thing still messed with him a bit. "Should we, like, get a time shovel or something and dig ourselves out?"

Amy stared at him. "A _time shovel_?"

"Better than a Time Head," the Doctor said with a shrug and a wry grin. "No, no, we're not stuck, not at all. We can leave any time we want to."

Rory sighed with relief. "So let's just-"

"But why would we want to?" the Doctor said with a giddy smile, heading back toward the door. "There's something wrong here, something I've never seen quite like this. Time is a bit... wibbly-wobblier than usual, don't you want to find out why?" He held up his Sonic Screwdriver and twirled it in his fingers as he strolled back into Hill Valley.

Rory glanced at Amy. "Don't suppose we get a choice?" he asked, exasperated.

Amy responded with a shrug, and followed the Doctor out.


	2. Kindred Spirits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _The Boy Beyond Time_

Chapter 2: Kindred Spirits

 

-

 **MAY, 1977**

-

Hill Valley was a small town, with most of its economy driven by the local university, and at the town's heart was a tall courthouse and a small, grassy area across the street from its steps. Most of the main shops and businesses were centered around this mini-park, and as such it was the center of activity  and the Doctor's investigation.

It was a warm, clear spring day. There was notable hustle and bustle as the citizens went about their daily business, and no one paid much heed to the British tourists or the strange little blue phone booth that came with them, and the passer-bys certainly didn't notice these three strangers circling the Courthouse Square for over twenty minutes, wandering seemingly aimlessly.

The Doctor strolled in his clockwise course, stepping close to shops, peeking in windows, sniffing the air and testing the wind, with his companions following a few paces behind. Rory watched the Doctor warily as they pressed on before his stomach finally grumbled, and he spoke up on its behalf.

"Doctor," he said hesitantly, "what are you doing, exactly?"

"Looking," he replied absently. "Trying to figure out where these... twists in time are coming from. The ripples are radiating from a central point, but I can't find it." He pressed his lips together into a thin line. "It keeps moving."

Rory and Amy exchanged glances, and he added, "You're... looking at time?"

The Doctor turned then, casting a side glance at Rory. "Well, not looking. It's not sight." He tapped his own chest. "Different species, different biology, so logically I'd have different senses." He shrugged, then added, "I mean, I've got all the basics, too, of course  sight, sound, dignity, smell, humor, taste, touch, fashion--"

"Fashion?" Rory echoed.

Amy quirked an eyebrow. "Not so sure about that one," she said dryly, tugging at the collar of her blouse.

"Oh... shut up," the Doctor said with a playful scowl. "Bow ties are cool." He turned away before she could reply, and continued his explanation. "Anyway, we Time Lords have a... twelfth sense about this sort of thing.

"So maybe we could help? What if you hooked us up with some Time Goggles?" Rory said, miming some binoculars over his eyes.

"Or maybe some kind of... time-sensing meditation technique?" Amy added thoughtfully.

"Oh, no," the Doctor said with a shake of his head. "Humans aren't wired to handle that kind of perception. If either of you, or any other human, were given Time Lord perception, you'd go mad and burn your mind from the inside ou--"

He stopped suddenly and his head snapped to the left, staring down a side street a moment before turning on his heel to follow his gaze down the street at a brisk pace. Amy and Rory followed a few strides behind. The side street was small, with narrow lanes. Small, skinny offices, stores and apartments were crammed close to the sidewalk. The Doctor expertly dodged the light current of townspeople on the sidewalk without breaking a stride before he finally came to a quick stop.

"Doctor?" Amy peered over his arm and tried to see above the crowd as well. His steely gaze was fixed forward and she tried to see what he was looking at. She glanced at him, then followed his gaze to a building at the end of the block as a mother and son stepped out of the front door and down the steps onto the sidewalk. The Doctor reached in his pocket and pulled out some cash.

"The diner near that clock tower," he said quietly, handing the money to Amy. "You and Rory go get something to eat. I'll meet you there in about twenty minutes."

"That's your Serious Face," Amy noted as she took the cash and pocketed it. "What's going on? Do you need our help?"

"I might later," the Doctor said quietly. "Just go."

Amy frowned but nodded and stepped back, leading her husband away as the Doctor strode forward confidently, fishing his psychic paper out of his pocket. He approached the woman and her son with a bounce in his step and a million dollar smile. He glanced at the office sign on the way over  a doctor's office of some kind.

"Good afternoon, madam!" he called, holding up his psychic paper for her to inspect. "My name is Doctor John Smith, and I'm here doing a short survey regarding the quality of health care for American youth."

The woman gazed at him from under the wide brim of her hat, and it was then he noticed how she was dressed. Despite the warm weather she had a long, pink winter coat with a high collar, though it didn't hide her many curls of brown hair. From her gait and the way she had been ushering her son out the door, he could tell she didn't want to be recognized. The Doctor glanced at the sign on the building, inspecting it a little more closely  it wasn't just any doctor's offic. This was a psychiatric clinic.

"I'm sorry," she said quickly, placing her hands firmly on her son's shoulders and starting down the sidewalk, "we're not interested. Come on, sweetheart, let's get going."

"Ah, hold on," the Doctor said quickly, walking astride her, "you misunderstand! The results of this survey could impact the lives of sick children like your son all over the world--"

She froze and whirled to face him. "My son is not sick," she snapped, "and I don't need the whole world knowing my family's business, thank you." She picked up the pace again, hands on her son's back, leading him down the street and presumably toward their car.

"I assure you," the Doctor stepped in their path, holding his hands up, "the results will be completely anonymous, and children everywhere will benefit from the..."

She steered her son around him as he spoke, and the Doctor gritted his teeth in frustration as she walked away. As he tried to think up another argument she cried out, and her son wrenched himself from her grip and darted back toward him.

"Hi," her son said, offering his hand in greeting. He was a short, baby-faced little child with a mess of brown hair and bright, blue eyes. "I want to help!"

The Doctor grinned and shook his hand. "How nice to such an eager volunteer! I'm the Doctor."

The boy grinned, revealing he'd recently lost a tooth. "I'm Martin McFly!"

"A pleasure to meet you, Martin!" The Doctor gave his hand another firm shake.

"Young man," Martin's mother snapped, grabbing his arm and yanking him away from the Doctor. "What have I told you about talking to strangers?"

Martin turned to face his mother, frowning. "You said it was okay if you're here!" He pointed back to the Doctor. "Besides, he's not a stranger, he said he's Doctor Smith! Right?"

"It's okay only if I or your father say it's okay." She leaned down and looked him straight in the eye, scowling. "Remember the story of Little Red Riding Hood?" Her voice lowered to a soft, nigh-inaudible whisper, but the Doctor could still hear her despite her effort. She smoothed Martin's hair out of his eyes and and added, "she talked to a wolf she didn't know, and he turned out to be a Big Bad Wolf that gobbled her-"

"Mom, I'm nine," Martin said dryly, "you don't have to talk to me like I'm a baby. He just wants to ask some questions!"

"You'll understand someday. Come on, Martin." She stood up an took his arm firmly, dragging him down the sidewalk. Martin dug his feet but only succeeded in falling over, and caught himself to keep up with her stride. He took one last, sad-eyed look at the Doctor as he walked, who waved at him as he watched them disappear around the corner of the block.

The Doctor watched the corner for a moment after they disappeared, then shook his head in dismay. He glanced at the psychiatrist's office once more before turning on his heel and heading back for the diner.

"Funny thing," he muttered to himself, expression solemn, "that she should mention a Bad Wolf..."

\- - -

Rory saw the Doctor outside the diner through the window before he even entered, and greeted him with a wave as he stepped through the doors. "Doctor! You're early!"

The Doctor glanced at them and grinned. "I am, aren't I?" He said as he strolled over to their booth, sitting down next to Rory. "Congratulations, you two!"

"Congratulations?" Amy glanced at Rory, who shrugged. She looked back to the Doctor warily. "Uh, you know, Doctor, our wedding was... a while ago."

"Your wedding isn't for another thirty years," the Doctor said with a chuckle, grabbing one of Rory's chips from his basket. "No, no, it's not that at all." He dipped the chip in Rory's chocolate milkshake before popping it in his mouth. "I mean congratulations on the new jobs you're both getting today!"

He was met with another blank stare from them both.

\- - -

 **SEPTEMBER, 1986**

\- - -

In the days after coming home from 1885, Marty had thought the hardest part about Time Travel was coming home from a grand, history-changing adventure to a reality you no longer recognized. The initial shock had been bad enough  after fixing the damage he'd done to his parents' love life in 1955 and successfully guaranteeing their marriage and, by extension, his own conception, he'd arrived home in the middle of the night and fallen asleep instantly  and waking up to a life that was no longer his own.

His father, previously a meek, bottom-rung office worker, was a successful, confident published author and his overweight, alcoholic mother had become thin, trim, and no longer dependent on the bottle. His siblings, too, had literally become mirror images of their former selves. And suddenly, his family was upper-middle class and always had been.

He hadn't had time to mull it over, because not even an a day into this new reality had passed before fate dropped him in 2015, back to 1955, and then to round off his adventures he landed back in 1885 without getting a moment to relax and de-stress in between. Marty McFly had learned a lesson in self-esteem, named a canyon, saved a woman destined to die and watched his best friend fly away in a time-traveling train for God knows how long.

And then he came home to a family he didn't know.

Superficial details were the same. His parents and siblings had the same names and faces, his house was the same address in Lyon Estates, and he could still shred an axe like nobody's business. His girlfriend was still Jennifer Parker, and even though her face had changed, she was still the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen. His circle of friends was mostly the same, but they treated him differently  the hierarchy had been shifted oh so slightly, because now suddenly he was and had always been the well-off friend from a stable home, a role he had no idea how to play. He no longer got their inside jokes, and didn't understand references to old childhood antics his "old self" had never participated in.

He was a stranger in this mirror world that looked so much like his own.

Still, that wasn't even the worst part about Time Travel. That came a few weeks later, when he realized he didn't have as much of a problem with the altered reality as he used to. At first he thought he was just growing accustomed to his new life until he realized with horror that he was changing to match his new surroundings  the old Marty who had initially gone back in time was fading away to be replaced by a look-alike with more money and more attitude. Had he always been so cocky and overconfident? Had he always had such an overblown reaction to being called a chicken? Was the phrase "cork bottle" always a funny inside joke? Marty now had two conflicting sets of memories, and at times he couldn't remember which one applied to the here and now, and which one was only the shadow of a boy who had never existed.

The memories of "old" Marty never faded, but over the following seven months Marty had sort of learned to tell the difference between his old life and his new one, to distinguish between what was lost forever and what was now, and now had always been, who he was. He wasn't always successful, but he was getting better.

Just when he'd thought it was over, a whole new time travel adventure involving multiple trips to 1931 had left Marty with a whole new  but overall better  change in his life: In a previous timeline, his close friend Doc Brown had disappeared in his time machine, presumably to spend the rest of his days having adventures with his family. Now, in reality's latest update, Doc, Clara and their boys retained part-time residence in the Brown home in present-day Hill Valley. Marty's close friend, whom he'd thought had been lost forever, was now just a phone call (or a short drive) away. And by God, did he ever need someone to talk to about time travel.

From what Doc had told him, the Browns had become a second family to him  in fact, Doc had been heartbroken when he'd discovered this timeline was new and that Marty didn't remember it. Still, Marty had assured him the memories would come to him with time, and indeed they did begin to trickle back in the summer months leading up to University. He soon "resumed" his position as the favorite babysitter of Jules and Verne Brown, and "continued" to sit down to dinner with the Browns once a week. He even kept helping Doc out with his experiments in his free time, for old times' sake  it seemed like the only thing he had left of his old, pre-time travel life.

Perhaps it was for the best that Marty's time travel adventures had taken place during his senior year of high school. It was a time full of nothing but change, and his sudden feeling of alienation among his peers and friends could be blamed on something simple like growing up and growing apart instead of his conflicting, inaccurate memories and emotional turmoil.

Still, Hill Valley was a small town, and everybody who lived there knew everybody else and saw each other every day. Of Marty's classmates who chose to move on to college, a sizable chunk of them chose the local University  close, convenient, and still inside the town's tight-knit social bubble. So even at college, the beginning of his "adult" life, he was haunted by the high school whispers about how weird he'd gotten, how he didn't hang out with his old friends anymore, and what a stuck-up asshole he'd become. He didn't want that reputation  he'd tried to avoid it  but he just couldn't... hold a conversation with his old friends anymore. It was a miracle he was still with Jennifer, and probably only because she'd had a brief trip through time, herself. She understood  just barely.

Which is why Marty was grateful for people like Rory Williams in his life. Awkward, quiet Rory who didn't get caught up in Marty's old social circles. Foreign student Rory who had no connection to his childhood whatsoever. Friendly, amiable Rory who was easy to live with and easy to relate to. He was a fresh start, proof that there was still something more out there, outside the hometown life he'd never recover. It was amazing how much hope for the future that small reminder gave Marty.

In that first week they'd lived together at school, they'd just clicked. They could bullshit for hours talking about school or life or anything that crossed their minds at the time. Considering Marty's own personal interests, it didn't take more than a day for him to ask Rory about music.

"Do you play?"

Marty was referring to his guitar, of course  the other thing that had had kept him sane these past few months, when he couldn't talk to Doc or Jennifer. He could lose himself in the music, let his hands take over for his brain for a while.

Rory looked a little sheepish when he asked. "Sort of," he finally said.

"Sort of?" Marty smirked and quirked an eyebrow, taking the guitar from his shoulder and handing it to his room mate. "Come on, yes or no?"

He took the guitar from Marty and strapped it on, running his fingers down the neck, clearly trying to get a feel for the frets. "I learned to play guitar when I was younger," he started, taking the pick in hand and plucking out a scale on each string  Marty cringed at the stiff handling. "I told my girlfriend... okay, well, she wasn't my girlfriend then, but you know, I told her I was in a band. Then she called my bluff.."

Marty snorted and buried his face in his palm. "That kind of guitar playing, huh?"

"Yeah," Rory laughed, playing the scale again, a little more smoothly this time. "So yeah, I can play a song or two  well, once I remember how  but for the most part I'm rubbish at it."

"Well, you got your girlfriend now, right?" Marty said, raising his eyebrows. "

"Heh," Rory gave a sly grin. "She's my wife now, mate."

Marty's jaw dropped. "You're kidding!"

"Nope, I'm serious."

"You're a college freshman, and you're married?"

An odd look crossed Rory's face then, uncertainty, doubt, something like that  but only for a moment. It was quickly replaced with a confident smile. "I love her," he said wistfully, a distant look in his eyes. "I have, ever since I was a child. And I spent my whole life terrified that she'd just... disappear. Find someone more interesting, more exotic than boring old Rory Williams." He sighed. "If I ever broke off the engagement like that, or let it go too long... I wouldn't get a second chance."

Marty mulled that over in his mind. He loved Jennifer  he couldn't imagine his life without her, and the thought of losing her terrified him, especially now that she was one of the few local friends he had left. With that in mind, he couldn't imagine marrying her now, of all times  he wanted to make something of himself fist, be able to provide the sort of life he thought she deserved.

"I couldn't do it, man."

"You don't have to." Rory shrugged. "It's what I wanted."

"Do you miss her?"

"Every second we're apart," Rory said solemnly.

Marty winced, then glanced to the side. Maybe he'd better change the subject. "So, uh," he said quickly, "about the guitar. Maybe I could teach you." He stepped forward and adjusted Rory's wrists a bit, taking away that awkward wrist-bend most amateurs do because they see the pros do it. "I mean, you already know the basics. And you could practice on mine."

Rory's eyes lit up. "You'd do that?"

"Sure." Marty grinned. "A little something to surprise your wife when you get home. Remind her just why she married Rory Williams." Not to mention, Marty thought, if Rory got his own guitar, it'd be nice to have someone to jam with again.  

As he started planning the lesson and began giving Rory some tips, he found himself idly wondering just what kind of person Rory's wife was.

Maybe he'd get to meet her someday.

\- - -

 **MAY, 1977**

\- - -

Amy put on her warmest smile as the door opened, and she greeted the well-dressed woman who answered.

"Hello, Mrs. McFly?"

The woman smiled, sighing. "Thank goodness. Right on time. Please, come in, Mrs. Pond!"

Amy stepped inside, admiring the small but well-furnished home. "You have a lovely house," she said automatically. Not that she didn't mean it  she just wasn't one for small talk.

"Yes, thank you," Mrs. McFly said absently, calling down the hallway as she put on her earrings. "George, the sitter is here!"

"Just a second, Lorraine," George called back.

Lorraine turned back to Amy. "Thank you so much for doing this on such short notice. I didn't even know Shannon was old enough to play the lottery, let alone win it."

Amy shrugged. "Lucky, yeah?"

"Now, let me show you the emergency numbers. Please, don't hesitate to call the restaurant if you have any trouble..."

Lorraine showed Amy around the house, offered everything in the cupboard and fridge, and finally introduced her three children  David, Linda, and of course, little Martin.

When George and Lorraine finally kissed and hugged their children goodbye and finally left for dinner, David told Amy in no uncertain terms that he was far too old for a babysitter.

"Guess that means you're too old to cause trouble, too, yeah?" Amy smiled through her gritted teeth. "If you behave yourself, I won't boss you around. Deal?"

David narrowed his eyes. "You talk funny. Are you from Canada?"

"Excuse me?" She sputtered, shaking her head. "I'm from Scotland!"

"Whatever." David stomped down the hall. "You're only here to look after Martin, anyway. I'm gonna be in my room."

Bewildered, Amy watched him stomp away, then turned to Martin. "Now why would he say something like that?"

"It's 'cause Martin's crazy," Linda said with a shrug.

She glared at Linda. "Now, that's not a nice thing to say about your brother."

"It's okay," Martin piped, remarkably cheerful considering the conversation. "She's right. Mom takes me to the doctor for it and everything."

Amy turned and gazed at him for a moment. The Doctor had said that Martin was the source of the time anomalies, somehow  though he wasn't sure if Martin was causing them, or if they simply used him as a focal point. Amy's job for tonight, besides watching the children, was to just... talk to Martin, and figure out what his life was like, and why he was seeing a psychiatrist. From there, the Doctor figured, he could get more perspective on what, exactly, he was dealing with.

She was beginning to see why the Doctor had chosen her for this assignment. She had twenty-two years of personal experience wrapped up in a supernatural time-related mystery and had seen her share of therapists for the "crazy stories" she would tell as a result; Stories that, twelve years later, she learned were anything but imaginary. If anyone could talk to Martin, it was her.

"Linda, go watch the telly."

Linda blinked. "The what?"

"The Telly. The Television." She waved Linda away and gently took Martin's hand, leading him to the kitchen. "Come on, Martin. Let's talk in here for a little while."


	3. Hello Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _The Boy Beyond Time_

_The Boy Beyond Time_

Chapter 3: Hello Again

 **SEPTEMBER, 1986**

The air conditioners, worn-down as they were, tried their best to cycle the stale air through the dark, open room. There was little other ventilation to speak of, and what was available was limited and inefficient, so the silicone smell of constantly-running electronics combined with the stink of greasy snack food permeated the the area, creating that all-too-familiar arcade smell. The lights were always dim in here, drawing any patron's eyes directly to its core content – the screens of game cabinets lined up in rows along the walls with bright, colorful displays. Digital music and sound effects from all directions mingled together into a low drum of background noise that managed to filter out distractions rather than cause them.

Marty glanced back at Rory. Even in the dim, inconsistent light, he could see the giddy grin on Rory's face.

"What," Marty said with a chuckle, "never seen an arcade before?"

"Not for a long time," Rory answered with an odd, wistful tone in his voice. "And never like this."

What, they didn't have arcades in England? Seriously? Marty shook his head, bewildered. "Well, you're gonna love this. Come on." He led his buddy down the rows of arcade games, glancing back occasionally to smirk at Rory's grin. They stopped at a _TRON_ cabinet, and Marty turned to him as he fished in his pocket for quarters. "So they just don't have these places in England, or what?"

Rory shrugged. "I mean, I'm sure they're around. They're just not very popular..." he paused for a moment, "...where I come from."

"So you don't have video games?"

"Oh, we do," Rory assured him with a confident nod, "we just play them at home, is all."

"With the Nintendo and stuff?" Marty shrugged. "Fair enough. My little cousin has one of those. But trust me, the graphics and stuff are loads better here in the arcade. Check it out." He turned his gaze across the alley, motioning toward a copy of _Dragon's Lair._ "That's like controlling a movie. Good luck getting something like that on a dinky little Nintendo." For now, at least, Marty thought with a grin. Doc's youngest son, Verne, was quite a the fan of video games and had a collection of systems spanning over forty years, including a few systems that wouldn't be developed for another decade or two. Marty often found himself roped into playing for hours on end when he watched the kids, and he still had trouble wrapping his head around just how stunning those future-games were. If the home consoles were that advanced in the future, he wondered just how mind-blowing the arcades of tomorrow might be. He regretted not looking for one while he was in 2015. _Another time_ , he promised himself as he dropped a quarter into _TRON_ and showed Rory the Light Cycle game. Until then, he had no problem showing off his skills with today's technology.

They didn't keep track of how much money they blew on games that day, nor did they want to. As the Saturday afternoon stretched into evening the two of them were still playing, switching from game to game as fast as their attention spans would let them, challenging their scores and playfully criticizing each others' strategy and skill with the kind of brotherly goading you'd expect of lifelong friends.

It was strange, but ever since Marty had come back from his time-traveling escapades, he'd felt... misplaced. Disconnected. The Universe had shifted around him, changing to fit the new history while keeping him almost entirely intact. Marty had always been something of an outcast, but in his old life, he'd found a familiar rhythm that kept him going; he'd had his music, his small group of friends, and Doc, his _best_ friend. Now, however, he was trapped in this altered present, where the only friend left who wasn't suddenly a stranger was now preoccupied with a wife and children.

Yet it somehow wasn't so bad now that he had Rory. There was something about him that drew Marty in, something he couldn't place or put a name to. Aside from his unmistakable English-ness there was nothing particularly remarkable about him, yet somehow they shared... something in common, something that made Marty feel Rory was in sync with him in a way the rest of the town wasn't. If Marty was doomed to life as an outcast, at least he knew he and Rory could be outcasts together.

As they laughed over Dirk the Daring falling to his death for the umpteenth time, Marty finally gave in to the strain on his eyes. He managed to pull himself away from the games and take a step toward the exit. "It's getting pretty late," he sighed, seeing the sunset out the window, "and I've got a history paper due Monday that I haven't even started. We should probably head back." Not to mention he felt a little bit dizzy, and somewhere in the side of his head he could feel the first stirrings of a nasty headache. Marty wondered if he actually would get any work done tonight.

"A history paper?" Rory quirked an eyebrow at him as they headed for the exit side-by side. "Are you sure? The Doctor isn't the type to give a lot of homework."

Marty scoffed. "Are you kidding? First week of school, bam! Six-page chapter review. I swear, I thought Bradley was supposed to be the easy professor." He chuckled to himself as reached for the glass door leading outside and paused, seeing Rory's reflection in the glass, a few paces behind him. Marty turned and gazed curiously at him, noting the concern in his face. "What's wrong, Ror? Forget about it? We've still got time, I can help you out."

Rory was quiet, and his eyes bored into him. "Marty, there's no paper due on Monday for that class."

Marty arched his brows and shrugged. "Okay, if you say so." He turned back to the door and pushed it open. "Good luck explaining that to Doctor Bradley."

"Smith." Rory was beside him again, in the entrance of the arcade, gazing at Marty with fearful, pleading eyes. "Doctor Smith is our history professor."

"Uh," Marty blinked, staring blankly at Rory, "what? What are you talking...about...?" But even as he spoke, the words caught on his tongue a moment, his headache flaring up suddenly like a twisting knife lodged in his temple. He stumbled, catching himself on the side of the building, and brought his left hand to his face. The dizziness from before was suddenly a rush of vertigo that left the whole street spinning and falling, unable to keep his balance.

"Marty!" Rory cried, and Marty felt strong hands under his arms, safely lowering him to the ground and gently leaning him against the brick side of the arcade. "Marty, what's wrong?"

Though his vision was a bit blurred he could see Rory kneeling in front of him, and just barely make out the look of concern on his friend's face. Marty had to shut his eyes then, because the world was still spinning and it was making him sick. Marty groaned and leaned his head back against the wall, trying to focus. Rory was still talking to him, but Marty didn't pay attention, trying to focus on himself.

He knew this sensation, it was something he'd been dealing with since he'd first come back from the past. Whenever a new memory trickled back or changed, he got these little dizzy headaches. Still, it was always just a mild annoyance, never like... like this. And...

Doctor Smith. Of course he remembered Doctor Smith, the weird British professor who knew his name. Why had he remembered someone else instead? Nothing else in the timeline seemed changed, and he knew for a fact he hadn't been time-traveling for months. Yet he could still remember the kindly Doctor Bradley, with his soft but stern tone, and him chatting with Marty about the subject in such an excited way that he considered changing his major to history... he remembered both clearly. Which one actually happened?

Marty's thoughts were interrupted when his right eye was eased open by Rory's fingers, and met by a large square of bright light. "Gah!"

Rory pulled the light away and leaned forward, gazing right into Marty's eye, before letting his eyelids close. Marty let his eyes flutter back open again and he gazed at the little black square in Rory's palm, the source of the light.

"What is that thing?" Marty mumbled.

Rory glanced at it. "It's my pho- uh, my clock."

Marty struggled to process that. A little square of light? "What kind of clock is that?"

"A British clock. Now focus, Marty." Rory leaned forward again, pocketing the black square and gently taking Marty's arm, feeling the inside of his wrist with his fingertips. "Can you tell me what happened?"

Marty leaned forward, slowly standing up, leaning against the wall for support. "I just... too much video games, that's all." He forced a smile, standing up on shaky legs. The world was still spinning and his head throbbed, but it wasn't as intense, and he could feel it dying down with every second. "Bright light out here kinda... threw me off a bit."

Rory gazed at him, clearly deep in thought, though Marty couldn't quite read the emotion.

"Does this happen a lot?" Rory finally asked.

Marty shook his head. "It's fine." He grinned, though he could tell by the look on Rory's face that he didn't believe him for a second. Regardless, Rory gently placed Marty's arm around his shoulders for support.

"Come on, mate," Rory said, slowly leading him down the street. "Let's get back to the dorm."

* * *

The autumnal equinox was weeks away, yet already the environment had long since shrugged off the thick, humid summer heat to allow for the sharp, crisp autumn air. At one time, Doctor Emmett Brown hadn't been one for the great outdoors, preferring to shut himself inside to tinker and toy with his latest scientific whim. However, during the decade or so he'd lived in the nineteenth century, he'd gained an appreciation for the changing seasons and the creative ways in which the meteorological fluctuations could be utilized, knowledge which had long since been lost to the average twentieth-century first-world man. Growing up in a world of technology and convenience, where rain, snow, and heat were naught more than minor annoyances, had spoiled him rotten and left him vastly unprepared for a nineteenth century life of hard labor and limited technological resources.

Yet after the initial shock, Emmett had reveled in the new, simpler life presented to him. Where others may have found a chore, he saw a challenge: create a comfortable, happy life with only the resources available a century prior. Setting himself up as a blacksmith, Emmett had quickly created himself a utopia of scientific exploration and personal challenges that kept him engaged and entertained for months. He gained a new appreciation for the for the merits of hard work and resourcefulness, a trait he carried back with him to 1985 upon his eventual return to his own time with is new family.

Emmett had been worried about coming home to the future with a family in tow. To the people of Hill Valley, he'd never even left; on October twenty-sixth, he was a shut-in hermit, and by the twenty-eighth, he was married with two biological sons. Strangely enough, he found the best explanation was no explanation at all. People would whisper, and he let them. It was no secret that he'd once worked for the government, and that seemed to be the most popular theory. Perhaps, his neighbors would whisper, he met his wife while working for the government during Nam, then some foreign official wanted him dead, and they had to separate until the threat had passed. Depending on who was speaking, it would often be embellished with spies, nuclear weapons, aliens or astronauts. It was easier for Emmett to just stay vague and let people come to their own conclusions, regardless of how contradictory they often were. He and Clara could always get a good laugh out of it later.

Ah, Clara – his beloved Clara, a woman like none he'd ever met, nor would he ever meet again. Though she was initially unfamiliar with twentieth century technology her eyes still sparkled with creativity and ingenuity. There was no end to her resourcefulness, and in his profession of tinkering and inventing, it was refreshing to have a fresh set of eyes like hers to look past the obvious and find flaws or opportunities he had overlooked. She was perfect, absolutely perfect, intelligent and witty and lovely to boot. In the years they'd been together – just over either a decade or a century, depending on how one measured it – she'd provided a partnership and companionship he'd never before known and graced him with two beautiful sons. In that time life had become more beautiful than he'd ever thought it could be.

Now, the Brown family was happily settled in Emmett's late twentieth-century home, having come back to 1985 so he could take care of his father's estate and scholarship foundation. It was a part-time residence, as they had a nineteenth-century home as well, but the twentieth century was familiar, convenient, and where Emmett had an identity established.

According to Marty, in a previous, obsolete timeline he had chosen not to settle, instead adventuring through time indefinitely. It was a decision with baffled him in the current version of events. Emmett couldn't imagine leaving his affairs at home unattended or depriving his children of a stable home, and he knew for a fact he would _never_ abandon Marty like that. Strange, how small changes in the timeline could affect one's outlook on life so drastically. Emmett often idly wondered what had been different, but he didn't dwell on it very very long. He was happy, and had the future to look forward to.

So here, on this chilly September evening, was a seventy-two (well, eighty-two, but the neighbors didn't know that) year old man doing repairs on his roof. Ten years ago he'd have paid someone else to do it, but back in the nineteenth century he routinely did these sorts of repairs himself, and now saw no point in wasting the money to hire a contractor. To help him he'd recruited his eldest son, Jules, much to the boy's disdain.

"You could hire someone to do this," Jules kept insisting. "I don't see the point in endangering ourselves just to save a few dollars."

It wasn't uncharacteristic of Jules to try to find a simple solution to anything, really. In part because he was a budding scientist, always trying to solve problems even when they weren't already manageable, but also because he really wasn't one for working with his hands. He reminded Emmett of himself when he had been twelve, not quite on the threshold of puberty but still growing, seemingly faster than he could produce mass and becoming quite lanky as a result. Jules was tall and dark haired and awkward, and wasn't the physical type, so no wonder working outside on the roof like this would terrify him.

Emmett shook his head and chuckled. "For goodness' sake, son, we're almost finished. Calm down." He hooked the end of the hammer underneath one of the roofing nails and pried it up. "Do you have the new shingle ready? Slide it underneath."

It was only after a moment, while watching Jules carefully to check his work, that Emmett noticed his own choice of words. Why, he'd had no issue casually cursing around Marty back in the day... and that was when his young friend had been barely older than Jules. Now here he was, using sterile phrases like "Goodness' sake". Come to think of it, much of his past treatment of young, preteen Marty as a social equal suddenly sent the father in him reeling. He'd allowed a twelve year old boy around some very dangerous machinery with little supervision... and great scott, he'd shared alcohol with him at fifteen, what had he been thinking? The possible fallout from law enforcement officers alone should have been threatening enough, but he also knew excessive alcohol consumption at such a crucial stage in development might have permanently damaged Marty's long-term cognitive capabilities! Granted, Marty never drank in excess, never more than a single beer, if even that. And despite his... _condition,_ he was still remarkably capable and showed no signs of cognitive inefficiency. Quite the contrary, actually – Marty was quick, clever and resourceful, if a bit lazy at times. Perhaps it was that spark of intellect, that small indication that Marty was sharper than other boys his age, that had drawn Emmett in and allowed him to treat the boy like an adult.

Or, hell, perhaps having a wife and kids had simply mellowed him out more than he realized. Where he'd always encouraged Marty to simply say what was on his mind, these days Jules and Verne were firmly scolded when something inappropriate passed their lips. He'd shared beer with Marty and even allowed him to smoke his pipe once or twice, Yet now his own boys weren't allowed to come near such substances until a much older age. Though he'd never depended on Marty to run the more dangerous machinery he had still been given free reign of the lab, while Jules and Verne were strictly forbidden to come too close to most of his inventions for fear of their safety. Back in the day Emmett had considered Marty the son he'd never had, yet now that he actually had sons, he was starting to realize how un-fatherly he'd truly behaved.

Emmett's thoughts were interrupted when Jules gave an overly-dramatic sigh. "This is a waste of my genius, father," he whined. "Any idiot can replace shingles."

"Well, then," Emmett set the hammer down and ruffled Jules' hair a bit, "a genius like yourself wouldn't want to be bested by 'any idiot', now, would he?" He set the nail and held it in place, handing the hammer to Jules. "Here, you finish this."

With another drawn-out groan, Jules steadied the hammer, but slipped with the first swing and struck Emmett in the thumb.

"Yeaagh!" Emmett cried, biting back a curse and shaking his hand out. "Now, s-see," he said, attempting to keep his voice steady as he tried to ease the throbbing, "this is what we're here to learn. You can't be a great scientist if you don't know how to handle simple tools." Though admittedly, Emmett wasn't entirely sure his son wasn't simply feigning clumsiness to get out of doing work. "I tested my finest inventions by building them with my own two hands. You can repair a roof, at the very least."

Jules gaze fell, accompanied by an apologetic expression. "Sorry, father. Maybe Marty should be up here helping you, instead." He held out the hammer, but Emmett didn't take it, instead setting the nail back up so Jules could try again.

"Marty's presently occupied with the college life," Emmett said, wincing as Jules brought the hammer down, but this time he struck true and began to drive the nail in.

"Perhaps Verne could aid you."

"Verne isn't allowed up here."

"I'm not?"

Both Emmett and Jules paused, turning their heads to look back at the ladder where Verne stood, leaning forward on the roof and grinning wide enough to show off his missing tooth. Verne was smaller than his brother, though he hadn't yet grown out of his childhood stockiness, with blond hair and bright eyes. Though not as academically inclined as Jules, Emmett knew Verne was clever and creative in his own... unorthodox ways.

Emmett sighed and gave his son a dark look. "No, Verne, you're not. Get down from there."

"Aw, come onnn," Verne whined, "why not?" He rocked backwards... and the ladder followed suit.

Emmett felt his heart stop and scrambled, lunging forward to grab one of the rungs before Verne could crash headfirst to the pavement. He nearly tumbled off the roof himself, but managed to keep his hold.

" _That's_ why," Emmett snapped, holding onto the ladder firmly as he slowly shuffled back up to a safer height. "You're too young to be up here."

Verne's frightened look melted away and he stared down at the shingles, dejected. "Sorry, dad."

"An admirable attempt," Jules sneered, turning his nose up, "but your plot to render father a corpse has come to naught."

Verne shot him a scowl. "I'll practice on your thesaurus!"

"Please. You can't kill a book."

"Can it, _Julia_!"

"Boys!" Emmett cried, slamming a palm down on the roof. "Enough! Verne, get down. Now."

With a huff and a roll of his eyes, Verne started his descent, and Jules snickered. Emmett shot him a look.

"That was uncalled for," Emmett said, setting the nail again. "You should be setting an example for-"

"Oh!" Verne's voice piped up again, suddenly back on the roof. Emmett whirled and was about to scold him, but he continued, "I forgot to mention, Marty's on the phone."

* * *

 **MAY, 1977**

The house was coordinated in creams, whites and pastels, the sort of colors adults deliberately chose to show off how clean their things were. The lounge furniture looked immaculate; not the recently-cleaned sort of immaculate, either. There were no creases on the sofa, no scuffs on the coffee table, and even the carpet looked barely trodden on the far end of the room. The near end, where the dining-room table was situated, looked a bit more lived-in for obvious reasons. There was a bar separating the dining area from the actual kitchen, and as Amy walked around into the kitchen to find something to eat, Martin climbed up on one of the barstools and rested his chin on his arms, watching Amy silently. As Linda scurried off to another room to find the telly, mumbling something about Martin getting all the attention, Amy began to glance through the cupboards to see what was around.

"So," she said thoughtfully, pulling a box of instant hot cocoa from a shelf, "Martin McFly. That's a nice name." She found two coffee mugs and set them on the counter. "With a name like McFly, it sounds like you should be doing some traveling, yeah?"

Martin just shrugged.

Amy gave a humorless smile, then found a kettle to boil water. "You and your siblings told me you're crazy," she said as she prepared the cocoa, "but I've got to say, you look fine to me." A little too fine, she noted whenever she glanced at him. He had a sharp, focused look in his eyes as he watched her, something she'd expect of an adult, not a nine-year-old.

"Well..." Martin said slowly, "I am. Everyone says so." He broke eye contact then, gazing off to the side, clearly uncomfortable. "Even my mom, when she thinks I can't hear her."

With the kettle on the stove, Amy had a free moment, and leaned back against a cupboard to gaze at him sadly, her thoughts drifting back to her own childhood. She remembered the hushed whispers from grown-ups as she listened around the corner, and their sing-song sweet voices when they spoke to her face and told her as gently as possible that she was crazy and delusional, that she was far too old to cling to her imaginary Doctor. Each word was a stab in the heart, day after day, until the day she finally grew up and started to believe they were right – and then she was far too numb to feel the stabs any longer.

"Why do they say that, though?" Amy struggled to hide the quiver in her voice.

Martin leaned back against the barstool, grabbing the edge of the counter and staring somewhere at the ground. "'Cause I don't remember things right," he said quietly.

The kettle hissed and began to whistle loudly, and Amy turned to grab it and finish making the cocoa. "Well," she called back, pouring the hot water over the cocoa powder in the mugs, "lots of people have shoddy memories, you know. It's no reason to call you crazy."

"But I remember it _real_ wrong," Martin insisted as Amy set a steaming mug in front of him. "Sometimes I wake up in my room and I don't know where I am 'cause I don't recognize it." He stopped to blow the steam away from his drink. "And sometimes I start crying 'cause I don't wanna go downstairs 'cause my stepdad is just gonna hit me!"

"Hit you?" Amy gasped, eyes wide. "And you haven't told anyone?"

Martin pressed his lips together and sunk lower in the chair, his eyes shimmering with the beginnings of tears.

Amy glanced around the room again, suddenly remembering the exterior of the house. "You... don't have a downstairs," she noted softly, gazing curiously at Martin.

"An' I don't have a stepdad, either." He sniffed, finally taking a sip of his cocoa. Martin's hands were shaking, and a bit of it splashed on the counter. "I-I tried to tell someone and they thought I was crazy, 'cause of that. But I was so sure," tears were rolling down his face now, "an' I couldn't stop crying, cause I was sure that dad was dead, even though he was right there talking to me and trying to make me feel better an' I just..."

Amy circled around the bar back into the dining area to pull Martin into a hug. He quickly latched onto her, burying his face in her shoulder and sobbing while she held him close, combing her fingers through his hair. Something stirred in her heart, more than just the connection of shared experiences. It was one thing to try and keep faith in the not-so-imaginary Doctor who fixed a crack in her wall when she was seven, but Martin was actively trying to forget his strange memories. He _wanted_ his stepdad and his two-story house and his strange room to be imaginary, but they continued to haunt him regardless.

Martin pulled back, sniffling. His eyes were pink, making his blue eyes only look bigger and brighter against it, and his whole face was pink and puffy. Amy grabbed a napkin and handed it to him, but he just held on to it. He looked up at Amy and said through quivered sobs, "And everyone keeps telling me, Martin, you should know that isn't real, look around, but... I can't tell!" He sniffed again and wiped his nose with the napkin.

Amy ran her fingers through his hair once more, trying to brush away the strands that were damp from his tears. "Listen, Martin," she said softly, stepping back and bending down to smile warmly as she looked him in the eye. "When I was a little girl, there was a crack in the wall of my room. Sometimes it would glow, and always, if you listened close, there were voices coming out of it." She leaned in closer, giving a spooky grin. "Voices that weren't coming from the other side of the wall."

Martin blinked, his eyes still pink and puffy, but the tears had stopped. He sniffed and wiped his nose on his hand. "So where were they coming from?"

Amy grabbed another napkin and handed it to him. "Would you believe me if I told you they were coming outer space?"

"Not really," Martin said, taking the napkin and wiping his face. "I'd think you were trying to make me feel better by acting crazier n' me."

Well, that was a perfectly good explanation, she had to admit. He was a sharp kid. With a chuckle, Amy shook her head. "Nope, this was exactly how it happened. I promise."

"Okay." Martin said with a shrug, his tone of voice indicating disbelief.

Amy circled back around to the other side of the bar, leaning on the counter. "I was just a little kid, so you know, of course I was frightened, but no one could fix the crack. So as I said my prayers, I asked Santa Claus-"

"You _prayed_ to _Santa?_ " Martin's cynical attitude was shattered as he burst out laughing, nearly falling out of the bar stool. "That's stupid, Santa isn't _God!"_

Amy laughed along with him, happy to see him smiling again. She shook her head, grinning. "And you know what else?" She raised her eyebrows and leaned in. "I did it on Easter!"

Martin doubled over and held onto his stomach, he was laughing so hard. "You're crazy!"

"I was seven!"

"Still, you're crazier than me!" He grinned up at her, eyes sparkling with amusement for the first time that night. What a relief to see him actually enjoying himself! "What happened next? Tell me about the voices from outer space!"

Amy never considered herself much of a storyteller, so she tried to think of how the Doctor would tell his own story and drew from that. She told Martin all about the Raggedy Doctor who had come from space in his little blue box that was bigger on the inside, and she used all the wild gestures, bizarre metaphors and funny words like timey-wimey spacey-wacey, and Martin ate it up with glee. She talked about her Raggedy Doctor fixing the crack and disappearing after enjoying a lovely meal of fish fingers (fish sticks, Martin had corrected her) and custard. Then he disappeared, whisked away somewhere into time and space until the aliens came back, and the Raggedy Doctor returned to defeat them.

"But that was twelve years later," she said, resting her elbow on the counter and propping her chin in her hand. "I was all grown up."

"Well, not really," Martin insisted, though he was still smiling and clearly enjoying himself.

Amy raised an eyebrow, giving him a playful scowl. "Yes, really! All of that happened!"

"I'm not a baby, you know," he sighed. "You don't have to pretend things like Santa and the Tooth Fairy and flying space boxes are real."

Amy sighed, exasperated. What was wrong with this kid? Didn't he believe in anything? She placed her hands firmly on the table. "Did I say I was pretending?"

Martin shrugged. "You don't have to. Grown-ups are always pretending."

"How do you know?"

"They just are."

"How do you _know_ , though?"

Martin didn't answer. He glanced around, shifting in his chair, and finally settled his gaze on his half-empty cup of cocoa. "I dunno. They just... do."

Amy watched him quietly, her heart breaking. A lifetime of people looking down on you, brushing off everything you say as a silly story or delusion, can do some terrible things to a child. If anyone knew that, it was her. After being treated like that her whole life, it was all she knew, and she had faced the world with the same cynicism and disinterest it had shown her. It looked like that was how Martin was facing his own problems as well. Thank goodness the Doctor had come back for her, showing her just how beautiful and fantastic the Universe could truly be. Now, perhaps, she could pass that lesson onto someone else. Amy reached forward, putting her hand on Martin's wrist and using the other to cup his chin, looking him plainly in the eye.

"Martin," she said softly, "you can't just assume that people are lying to you. That's a sad way to go through life. You have to give people the benefit of the doubt."

"The what of the what?"

"The point is," she said, trying to come up with one of those grand, booming, on-the-fly speeches the Doctor was so good at, "maybe it's okay to believe in things like Santa and flying space boxes, you know? Just because the grown-ups don't believe something doesn't mean you can't." She smiled, pulling her hand from his chin to smooth back his hair again. Okay, so her speech wasn't great, but she got the point across, at least.

"But why should I believe it if the adults don't?"

"Because that's the best part of being a kid, believing in things!" She grinned, and when he returned the smile, she continued. "And sometimes, something's only impossible because so many people think it is that they don't even bother to try. So you've got to believe it's possible so you'll actually have the will to try it, and then it might be possible!" Okay, that was kind of clear, right?

Martin was looking at her strangely, then nodded. "If you put your mind to it, you can do anything."

"Yes!" Amy cried. "Exactly!"

"My dad says that all the time," Martin said.

"He's a smart man."

"Maybe." Martin shrugged, "But I don't think it works when your mind is broken like mine."

Amy sighed, then glanced behind Martin, pausing to stare at the glass patio door. There, waving at her from outside, was the Doctor. She glanced at Martin, who was distracted with his cocoa for a second, then drew a box in the air and pointed in the living room. The Doctor cocked his head, and she nodded – then he turned on his heel and disappeared into the dark backyard.

"Martin," she said, grinning, "I want you to imagine the flying space box for me."

"Why?"

"Just close your eyes," she told him, "and imagine it. A tall, blue box with windows. It's bigger on the inside, and flies through space."

He glared at her.

"Just do it!"

He sighed, and closed his eyes. Nothing happened, so Amy kept talking, stalling for time.

"It's flying through space and time, spinning around, surrounded by stars on all sides. And inside is a man called the Doctor, and he's flying, coming right here so he can say-"

She was interrupted by a familiar noise, a scraping sound like keys on a guitar string. Martin's eyes snapped open and he twirled on the bar stool. His jaw dropped and his eyes went wide as saucers as a tall, blue box materialized in his living room.

Amy grinned, leaning on the bar, as the TARDIS door opened a crack and the Doctor leaned out. "Hello again, Martin," he said with a grin.

* * *

 **SEPTEMBER, 1986**

Marty sat quietly at his desk, silent phone at his ear, waiting for Doc to come on the line. As he sat, he stared down at his journal. He'd started keeping it a week or so after coming home from 1885 as a means of keeping track of the changes he had made to the timeline, describing as best he could each "version" of reality he had experienced. He wasn't exactly eloquent, but then, it's not like he was setting out to become an author. Maybe he would have been... maybe he should be, considering his father in this timeline was a published and respected author. Yet he hadn't grown up with that man – the father he knew was meek and downtrodden, a man who didn't have the courage to show someone his stories, much less get them published. But that George McFly was gone, erased from existence, and in his place was the strong, confident George McFly who taught his kids to believe in themselves and follow their dreams.

It was terrible, but Marty couldn't help but feel resentful of that man. Sure, his dad had been kind of a... well, a loser, but what gave this guy any more right to exist than the dad he'd known and grown up with? He knew it was still his dad, and he knew at one point they'd been exactly the same. His father had grown up under the thumb of school bully Biff Tannen, while this new, more confident George McFly had stood up to him and grown up confident and respected. That one difference had turned his father into a happier, more successful man, creating a happier, more successful family life. That was a good thing, right? His life was better, wasn't it? Perhaps it would be, if he could remember more than bits and pieces of this new timeline, more than "just enough" to get by. He still felt like the old Marty, even when he remembered something from the new timeline.

Remembering new timelines... he wasn't sure he'd ever get used to it. He could always tell when it was coming, as it was always accompanied by dizziness and headaches and déjà vu, but it'd never been as bad as today. Not to mention whenever he got these weird memory spells, they were always from sometime _before_ using the DeLorean. Yet he hadn't time-traveled in months, and certainly not since the first day of school. So why was he remembering two different history professors?

"Marty?" Doc's voice broke into his thoughts over the phone, and Marty let out a sigh of relief.

"Doc," Marty said, "how's it going?"

"Very well, actually. I've been teaching Jules how to help patch up the roof."

Normal, everyday things. That was a good start. Marty smiled. "You trying to put me out of a job?"

"Of course not. There's always something to do around here, just thought I'd teach him a thing or two about working hard." Doc chuckled. "Much to his disdain."

Marty laughed despite himself. "I was just gonna say, bet he loved that." He paused then, sighing, knowing he had to get to the point sooner or later. "Listen, Doc, I've gotta ask. Have you..." he paused, glancing over at Rory, sprawled out on his own bed studying. "Have you been... speeding at all, lately?"

"...Come again?"

"You know..." Marty mumbled, glancing at Rory again, "driving over eighty-eight."

Doc didn't answer immediately, and Marty could hear him click his tongue in thought. "Marty, I presume your dorm mate is in the room with you, so I can understand why you can't explicitly refer to time travel."

"Yeah, exactly. That-"

"That said," Doc continued, "I'd appreciate it if you'd refrain from using euphemisms that make me sound like a coke head."

Marty burst out laughing, but quickly tried to cover his mouth. "Oh, God, I didn't... just..." He quickly calmed down, still chuckling a bit. Man, he needed a good laugh like that. "Sorry, Doc. But yeah, that's what I meant. Have you been using the DeLorean at all?"

"I've operated it several times on a near daily-basis for over a month now, but as merely a three-dimensional transport."

" _English_ , Doc."

"Yes, I've been using it, but only as a normal car. We haven't time-traveled for a while now... why?" Doc's voice grew suddenly concerned. "Did something happen?"

Marty didn't answer right away. What the heck was he supposed to say? Yeah, my memory is changing, know anything about that? No, of course Doc didn't... well, he did, but not to the extent Marty did. Doc was always careful when he time-traveled, never changing much, never altering things too drastically. While Marty, on the other hand, was the type to get mixed up in disaster and doing something stupid like accidentally prevent his parents from falling in love. Or even worse, causing two people to fall in love who _never_ should have. That had been a mess. Either way, he always seemed to muck something up in his own history, making his own memories that much more confusing.

"Marty?"

"Yeah, Doc," Marty said quietly. "Well, kinda. I think." He paused again, watching Rory, who was still studying quietly. "I couldn't... remember something right today. I thought maybe you could clear that up for me."

"You think someone might have changed the past," Doc said, "causing your memories to be altered." It was a question, but phrased matter-of-factly.

"Exactly," Marty said, a wave of relief washing over him. Thank God he didn't have to come up with a euphemism for _that._ "And it wasn't something from years ago, it was barely two weeks ago. But no one's been... messing with it, right?"

"Even if we had," Doc mused, "our shared experiences in the past indicate that to recall both versions of events you would need to be a temporal anomaly present at the moment of alteration, possibly even playing the role of a contributing catalyst yourself. Perhaps this is the Universe naturally attempting equilibrium by compensating for th-"

"Doc," Marty groaned, "English. Please."

With a sigh, Doc tried again. "From what I've learned from our own adventures, you can't remember both timelines if you didn't travel back in time to experience the event that caused the change. Otherwise you would simply change along with everything around you. In fact, I think there may be an element of causality required there as well – not just experiencing it, but somehow causing it yourself. But I don't have the data to confirm that, and I've yet to design a safe experiment that would-"

"Okay, yeah. Causality. Got it." Marty understood most of that, at least. "But Doc, it still changed! Okay, it didn't change, but I remembered it twice, happening completely differently, so something changed. I mean, it had to. What else could it be?"

"Marty..." Doc sounded hesitant and unsure. It was a tone he didn't use often, and it was more than a little unsettling. Finally, with a sigh, Doc continued, "I know you hate it when I bring this up, but when was the last time you saw your psychiatrist?"

"My..." Marty's voice caught in his throat, and he was unsure how to reply. He felt strangely numb all of a sudden, and wondered if maybe he'd misheard. He tried to ignore the iron weight of dread he suddenly felt in his stomach. "I don't see a psychiatrist..."

Doc sighed in exasperation. "Marty, don't be like this. You can't start shifting blame solely onto time travel and hope it goes away. If your symptoms are acting up again, you should swallow your pride and go back to Doctor Rector so he can-"

"What are you talking about?" The numbness was fading, giving way to an icy tightness clutching his chest and running through his veins. "What symptoms?"

"...Marty." There was that worried tone again. "If you're trying to be proud, stop it."

"Doc, please," Marty said shakily, "I swear to God, I... I don't know what you're talking about." And in all honesty, he wasn't sure he wanted to.

The phone was silent for a few moments, though to Marty it felt like forever. His chest was getting tighter - oh man, what was going on? What was Doc thinking? This was a joke, right? Any second now Doc was gonna laugh, and say he couldn't believe Marty fell for it, and how he couldn't believe he was still this gullible. They'd have a good laugh, and then, then... then he'd do something about this headache he felt coming on...

"Perhaps the timeline has been altered more than either of us first realized," Doc said quietly. "In reality, that is, the reality I remember, you've been seeing a psychiatrist since you were nine."

"That's bullshit," Marty snapped. His temple was pounding now and he had to close the journal, because looking at the words was making his head spin. "I don't see a psychiatrist!" But even as the words left his tongue he felt the memories begin to tickle at the back of his mind, vague, nostalgic memories of a soft leather couch and a bearded man. Oh, God, no, _please_ , this wasn't happening!

"Marty," Doc said sternly, "I'm coming over there to get you right now. We need to talk about this somewhere private."

Marty barely heard him because he was too focused on what his mind was telling him. There were words, now. He could remember them being spoken all his life... all _this_ life, anyway. Delusions. Disassociation. _Schizophrenia._ God, no. Please, no! He wasn't crazy. He was _never_ crazy. "Oh, God," he choked, "Doc, we screwed something up real bad. We went back and screwed up history-"

"Marty, your room mate!"

"-and now it's worse than ever because now I'm _crazy!"_

"Please, calm down!" Doc cried. "I assure you, you're perfectly functional-"

"Functional!" Marty threw up his free hand. "Isn't that a damn relief, huh? But it doesn't change the fact that _I'm seeing a fucking shrink!_ "

"Marty, stop." Doc snapped. "Meet me at the entrance to your dorm in fifteen minutes. We'll continue this conversation somewhere private."

The phone clicked before Marty could respond and he was met with a dial tone. Marty slammed the receiver down with a wordless snarl and buried his face in his hands, trying to blink back the burning in his eyes. "Damn it," he hissed, "God _damn it!"_ He slammed his fists down on the desk.

"You all right there, mate?"

Marty whirled to face Rory, who was staring at him wide-eyed. "Yeah," Marty said, taking a deep breath, to try and calm himself, "I'm fine."

"You know," Rory said hesitantly, "there's no shame in seeing a psychiatrist. Amy - my wife - she went through therapy her whole life, since she was seven."

"Good for her," Marty replied dully.

"It helped her."

"I'm glad." Marty laid his head down on the desk, burying it in his folded arms. He didn't need this right now... or ever. Damn time travel. At least Doc had a happy life now, but apparently it came at the cost of his own sanity. How did this schizophrenia thing work alongside time travel, anyway? Now that he remembered was he suddenly going to start having episodes? Or was it just his alternate-timeline self who was crazy, and he just had to live with the reputation?

There was a sound of squeaking bedsprings behind him, and then footsteps, before Marty felt a firm, comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Marty, I'm serious," Rory said warmly. "I grew up with her and watched her go through it. So if you ever need to talk about it..."

"I can't talk about this," Marty murmured, refusing to lift his head. "Even if I wanted to, I couldn't."

"You could try."

"Not to you."

Rory sighed. "I see." Marty could hear him awkwardly shuffle his feet. "Listen, Marty, I'm a lot more... experienced than you might think. You might be surprised."

Marty didn't reply.

"So, you know..." Rory continued a bit hesitantly, "if you need an ear, I'll listen. Even if you think I'd never believe it, I'll still listen."

With a sigh, Marty nodded, though he still didn't left his head. Damn it all, even if the rest of his life sucked, at least he managed to land a room mate like Rory. Maybe fate wasn't ready to completely shit on him yet. "Thanks, Ror," he mumbled, sitting up to wipe his eyes and get ready to go meet Doc.


	4. This Just Raises More Questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In May of 1977, Rory suits up for his role in the Doctor's grand scheme. Nine years later in 1986, Marty's trying to reconcile his conflicting memories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: I'm sorry this took so long. I've had 99% of this chapter finished for months now, but I couldn't find the right place to end it. I'm still not entirely happy with how it's turned out, because I cut it off far earlier than I wanted – pretty much nothing gets explained in this chapter. In fact, all this does is make the story more confusing, and I'm sorry for that. Still, I hope this will tide you over while I get the next chunk finished.
> 
> This is my first time writing something so timey-wimey, and boy, is it a doozy. I can only hope as the story continues I can explain what's going on in a way that makes some kind of sense. Since I have the entire timeline of cause and effect plotted out in my head, it's difficult to figure out how much information to give or withhold in each “jump” between decades. I hope everything makes sense in the end. :)
> 
> Thanks for sticking with the story thus far, and enjoy Chapter Four!

The Boy Beyond Time

 **Chapter 4** : This Just Raises More Questions

 

\--- 

**MAY 17, 1977**

**6:54 AM**

 

“There we go, I think that looks good!” The Doctor brushed his hands off, looking Rory up and down, grinning at his handiwork.

 

Rory shifted uncomfortably, tugging at the bow tie around his neck and grimacing. “A little much for just a doctor's office, don't you think?” He tugged at the suit coat.

 

“Oh, Rory,” the Doctor shook his head, clapping him on the shoulder. “Rory, Rory, Rory. You've got to think with the times! You can't go around looking like someone from two-thousand-eleven. Besides, you're an ethics inspector today! Not just at the hospital, but at a Psychiatric Clinic!” He patted Rory's shoulder and wrapped his arm around his shoulders, tugging at the lapels of the jacket. “It's a position that demands a certain amount of pretentiousness.”

 

“Ah,” Rory said with a quick nod. “Well, you'd certainly know about that.”

 

Amy snickered, averting her gaze from her boys and shaking her head. The Doctor, unfazed, simply grinned and peeled himself off Rory, looking him over once more with giddy pride. “Exactly! Trust me, Rory. I've got an innate sense of fashion.”

 

“Oh, yeah,” Amy called, rolling her eyes. “Says the man in the bow tie.”

 

The Doctor whirled, glaring. He stepped forward and raised his chin, tapping his collar. “Bow. Ties. Are. _Cool._ ”

 

As they bickered, Rory glanced at his reflection in one of the many metal surfaces on the TARDIS console. He looked... all right, he supposed. He glanced up at Amy, and she flashed him a quick grin – it was a warm smile, proud and loving. And amused, a little bit amused, and he couldn't blame her since he had this goofy thing around his neck. He grinned. Her gaze filled him with confidence. He loved how easily she could do that to him.

 

“So, Doctor,” Rory leaned back against the railing, “what am I looking for, exactly? Is the psychiatrist hiding something?”

 

“No. Yes. Kind of.” The Doctor moved to the console, pulling a lever and pushing some buttons, bringing up that weird looking graph on the screen, with intersecting planes and hyperbolic parabolas and all kinds of fancy stuff that meant nothing without context. “These temporal anomalies are ridiculously large, and all of them converge on a single, moving point.” He pulled out his screwdriver and tapped a point on the graph from which many of the spirals radiated. “That point being Martin McFly.”

 

Amy nodded. “So you think whatever is sending Martin to the shrink has got something to do with this time twists, yeah?”

 

The Doctor nodded. “It reminds me of... something I've seen before, once or twice.” He sighed, and for a brief moment, Rory could see something sad and wistful in his eyes before he continued. “But I can't say for sure until I see how, exactly, the time anomalies are manifesting in his everyday life.”

 

“And to find that out,” Rory concluded, “you want me to ask his psychiatrist about his symptoms.”

 

“Of course not!” The Doctor looked horrified. “Rory, you're a nurse. You of all people should know about the sensitive nature of what goes on between a doctor and his patients. There's a bond of trust and authority that must be upheld with the _utmost_ care.”

 

Rory raised his eyebrows. Of course he knew about the importance doctor-patient confidentiality, and given the chance to continue he himself would have been making the same point. What, exactly, did the Doctor expect him to do, then?

 

“If that bond is broken,” the Doctor continued, “Martin might grow up never trusting anyone again!” He turned, gazing solemnly at Rory. “Which is why, instead of asking him to tell you, you're just going to take Martin's file so we can look through the details ourselves.”

 

“Oh, right,” Rory scoffed, throwing up his arms. “That's completely different.”

 

“And to get in and get out without any trouble...” the Doctor reached into his jacket, pulling out a thin, metal device about the size of a pen -- the Sonic Screwdriver. Rory watched him, expecting him to point it at some knickknack to charge it up and make it, what, a super-key or a magic watch or something, but he simply handed it over to Rory, grinning.

 

Dumbstruck, Rory hesitantly reached for it. Meeting no resistance he closed his hand around it and stared at the Doctor, bewildered. “What, you're giving me the screwdriver for a day?” It was the Doctor's magic do-everything tool, Rory knew. Seems that whenever a job needed to be done you just point the screwdriver at it and sonic it away.

 

“Well, really, with time travel, I'll only be missing it for a minute or so. But yes, in a way.” He shrugged. “No need to smash up the whole place trying to get into a locked cabinet, right?”

 

Rory stared at it, then quickly dropped it into a pocket on the inside of his suit jacket, grinning wildly. He got the screwdriver! He wondered what he could do with it for a day... really, more than anything, he just wanted to point it at things and make the _vzzzzsshh_ sound for a while, looking all important and heroic. Penlights just weren't the same.

 

“Now,” the Doctor raised an eyebrow, “not gonna rob a bank or anything, now, are you?”

 

“Of course not.”

 

The Doctor leaned on the console and grinned. “Good man. You start at eight o'clock today, but I'll drop you off a little early so you can make a good impression. Seven should do it.”

 

“A good impression?” Rory shot the Doctor a curious glance. “Aren't I the one evaluating _him?_ ”

 

“Once I drop you off, I'll bring the TARDIS around to the end of the work day to pick you up. Then we drop Amy off at her babysitting job, hop ahead an hour or so, and start searching Martin's home for other details.”

 

Rory nodded. “Sounds good.” Of course, he's the one who gets to wait around all day while barely any time passes for the Doctor and Amy. Story of his life.

 

Quite literally.

 

Still, someone had to do it, and an eight-hour shift was barely a twitch compared to the two thousand years he'd endured in that alternate timeline. Rory picked up the empty, dusty briefcase the Doctor had provided him and brushed it off without complaint, straightening his suit one more time. “Anything else before we go?”

 

Amy hopped off the railing and strode toward him confidently, pulling him into a kiss. Rory dropped his briefcase, pressing forward with his lips and wrapping his arms around her waist. She pulled back after a moment, giving him a sly grin.

 

“A kiss before work,” she chuckled. “Haven't done one of those in a while.”

 

“I'll be sure to return the favor tonight,” Rory said with a wink. “I--”

 

“Okay, that's enough, break it up, you two.” The Doctor shooed them apart with a wave of his hands. “Newlyweds. Honestly.” His tone was annoyed, but he had a cheerful twinkle in his eye as he said it, and the corners of his mouth twitched, hinting at the beginnings of a warm smile.

 

As he was ducking out the TARDIS door, Rory turned and called back to the Doctor, “When will you be back?”

 

“At about four o'clock.” The Doctor grinned. “Coming to get you right now, actually!”

 

Rory shot him a wry smirk. “See you in a second, then.”

 

He stepped outside the TARDIS and shut its doors just moments before its much-smaller exterior began to fade from sight. He rocked back on his heels for a moment, inspecting his surroundings. The Doctor had dropped him off in an alleyway shooting off from the Courthouse Square. The brick buildings on either side were tall and blocked most of the dim morning light, and the dustbins lining the alley's edges cramped the already small space. The alley stretched a number of meters back and ended in a chain link fence shrouded in shadows. Rory turned to look out at the Town Square, bathed in the reds and pinks of sunrise. There was barely any activity, a stark contrast to the bustling small town less than a day prior. Across the courtyard, Rory could see the diner where he'd eaten yesterday. “Work” wasn't for another hour, he had time for a quick breakfast, he thought with a grin.

 

Rory had barely taken a step forward when he heard a strained groan coming from the alley behind him.

 

He froze, senses alert. That alley had been empty just a moment ago. Unless the person was hiding? Why would they need to hide? Was someone planning an attack? His mind began to strategize before he even realized what was happening. _Battle stance,_ said a voice inside him, a voice from a life that had never happened. _Prepare to defend._ He gripped the briefcase tightly, his mind already racing with ideas of how to weaponize it –

 

“Help me...”

 

It was a young man's voice, voice, soft and weak, barely above a choked whisper. All thoughts of battle melted from Rory's mind as another instinct took over, something more recent, more _real._ Medical training bubbled back up to the surface as he whirled, taking in the sight of a teen curled up on his side, hand clutching his chest, eyes clenched shut and face twisted in pain.

 

Rory dropped the briefcase, rushing forward and assessing the situation. _He can speak, so he's breathing._ _No blood that I can see. Check for physical injuries._ He kneeled to the ground in front of the boy. _Young man, probably late teens._ Strange... despite lying on the filthy alley pavement, his clothes were immaculate. There wasn't a scuff on him. Even his short brown hair seemed perfectly styled. _No indication of physical trauma._ At least, there was none where he could see. _Possible heart attack?_ He leaned forward, raising a hand, but not reaching for him, not quite yet. “Are you all right?”

 

“Help me,” the teen repeated, turning his head and opening his eyes. He gazed up at Rory with a dull-eyed look that gave him chills. There was something not quite... right about the boy, something that sent Rory's stomach churning with unease, yet he couldn't quite place it. Rory quickly shook off the jitters. This kid needed help. He reached forward, gently taking his right hand, coaxing it away from his chest so he could check his pulse. His skin was cold to the touch. Possible circulation issues.

 

He pulled out his phone and pressed his fingers to the boy's wrist, then frowned. The radial pulse wasn't usually _that_ hard to find. As he searched with his fingertips he glanced up, watching the boy's chest to check his breathing, keeping time with the clock on his BlackBerry. Unfortunately it seemed he was wearing too many layers. Beneath that bright-orange ski vest, Rory couldn't see the rise and fall of his chest or his back.

 

“Help me...” the boy breathed again.

 

“Don't worry, I'm going to get you help,” Rory said calmly, still trying to find his pulse. The kid must not have eaten breakfast yet. Low blood sugar could make veins hard to find. _Might need to go for the carotid instead_. “Can you tell me what happened?”

 

The boy was silent for a moment, and Rory looked down, locking eyes with him. A chill rose in the base of his spine as the boy stared at him with that glassy expression. His eyes were strange, a little too bright, a little too blue. Did they have colored contacts in the Seventies? Rory swallowed his unease again. “I'm here to help you, don't worry. My name--”

 

“Rory,” the boy breathed, his mouth forming a small smile that didn't reach his eyes.

 

Rory's breath caught in his throat. He stared down, trying to steel his expression. _Stay calm, don't alarm the patient._ But suddenly it wasn't the patient he was worried about. “How do you know my name?”

 

“Rory, it's _me._ ” His expression was still dull and dazed, but there was a shimmer in his eyes, a hint of hurt and confusion. “I'm...” he trailed, off, mouth forming a silent extra syllable, but he frowned, looking suddenly unsure.

 

“Go on, I'm listening,” Rory prompted gently. Possible low blood sugar, and now confusion... maybe he was having a diabetic seizure. “You're...”

 

But the boy didn't finish his thought. A pained expression crossed his face and he groaned, clenching his eyes shut. “Stop it,” he hissed, “ _stop it!”_

 

“Calm down,” Rory said, keeping his voice steady and authoritative. He set the boy's hand down gently and raised his own, opening his palms. “I'm not doing anything. See?”

 

“Please,” the boy's expression softened, “you have to help me, Rory. It's the only way. You and... and... _nngh!_ ” He winced again.

 

“I...” Rory glanced around. They were alone in the alleyway. He checked his lapel. Had the Doctor given him a name tag? No, nothing of the sort... He swallowed, turning his gaze back to the teen, inspecting him. There was nothing remotely familiar about this kid. He was just an everyday, baby-faced youth, albeit there was still something... off about him.

 

“Here.” Rory reached down, gently repositioning the boy onto his side, into the recovery position. The mystery teen didn't protest and continued to watch him dully. “I'm going to go get help,” he whispered, moving to stand up.

 

The teen reached up, grabbing Rory's wrist. “There's no time,” he hissed, his focus suddenly sharp. “Rory. When I'm gone...”

 

“You'll be just fine,” Rory told him firmly. “Let me get help.”

 

“No, Rory, please,” he gasped, struggling to sit up, supporting himself on one arm. “You're looking for me, after the rip... D-Doc's lab. That's where I... w... was. Will be.” He paused, looking confused again. “Where I... I'll... _aagh!_ ” He hissed and pressed his palm to the side of his head. “Stop it!”

 

“Doc's lab?” Rory's mind raced with possibilities. A hospital? That kind of doctor? Or was he talking about something more... specific? Rory lowered his voice to a whisper. “The TARDIS?”

 

“ _Stop it!!”_ The boy released Rory's arm and fell back, clutching the sides of his head and crying out in agony.

 

Rory leaned back and whirled, cupping his hands around his mouth and calling out toward the street. “Help, somebody!” There was no answer, and no one on the street that he could see, but that didn't deter him. “I need help! Call an ambulance! Somebody, please! This boy is...”

 

He turned back to check on the teen, but his eyes fell only on empty pavement. Rory jumped to his feet, glancing around frantically. The alley was a dead end. The mystery kid couldn't have jumped the fence in five seconds, especially not in his condition, and Rory would have seen him run into the street. He glanced around, but there was no sign of him, not even a disturbance in the grime.

 

“...gone,” Rory whispered.

 

Like he'd never been there at all.

 

\- - - - - -

 

**SEPTEMBER 14, 1986**

**8:13 PM**

 

Marty sat on his bed, guitar in his hands, trying to force his frustrations out onto the metal strings. He dragged the pick across them with unnecessary vigor, nearly scratching at the frets with his nails. It hurt his fingers, the sound was horrible, and he knew he'd have to re-string the whole damn thing afterwards but at that point he just didn't care. He had worse problems right now, and for the moment he was depending on his music to get him through the hard times like it always had before.

 

Or had it? That's what he remembered, at least – the disappointment when Biff bullied his father out of every nice thing they had, the heartbreaking days when dad shut himself away with his reruns and mom drank too much, and the crippling loneliness when Doc had disappeared in his time train and Marty wasn't ever sure he'd see him again. Marty remembered them all painfully, letting each experience shape who he was and make him stronger, finding the strength to keep going in his music. Except now none of those things had ever happened. Biff didn't have the balls to bully George McFly, George and Lorraine were healthy, loving and active, and Doc Brown wouldn't dream of leaving Hill Valley behind.

 

Marty's fingers froze over the strings, pick slipping from his fingers. He'd known, he'd known for so long, but only now was the realization really hitting him. The hardships he'd endured, the most influential moments in his life, those that shaped who he was and what he stood for... all at once, they never happened. His identity was invalid.

 

His life was a lie.

 

He let the guitar hang slack from his shoulder as set his hands on the mattress behind him and clenched his eyes shut, trying to will away the burning in his eyes.

 

“You okay?”

 

Rory again. Marty didn't move, just took a deep breath and sighed. “Yeah.”

 

“Are you going to meet your friend?”

 

Marty nodded, leaning back forward and wrapping a hand around the guitar's neck, leaning down to grab the pick again. “Yeah. Just needed to clear my head, first.”

 

“You seem a little distracted.”

 

“Heh.” Marty shrugged, forcing a smile as he played a riff from a Led Zeppelin favorite. “Doesn't matter if I am. My hands know the song.” He lingered on a note for a moment before pulling the guitar off himself and setting it back on the stand. “But I should get ready. I need to talk to him.”

 

Rory didn't answer, but Marty could feel his eyes on him as he grabbed his wallet and coat. Well, whatever. Marty knew he was worried. Hell, after his outburst not ten minutes ago, anyone would be. All things considered, Marty was surprised Rory wasn't asking _more_ questions about it.

 

“It's a little strange, though,” Rory said suddenly as Marty reached for the door, “the two of you being friends, I mean. He's old enough to be your grandfather.” He sat up on the bed, tossing his textbook aside.

 

Marty chuckled, leaning against the door. “Yeah, I get that a lot. But he's one of my best friends.” As he spoke, he found no new memories popping up to contradict him, thank God. He wasn't sure he could handle reality taking his friendship with Doc away, too. “My parents had... problems when I was a kid. Doc practically raised me.” He wondered how much of that was still true. His parents weren't the distant, awkwardly affectionate people they once were. Would he be doing this for the rest of his life? Wondering if everything he said a lie?

 

“How on Earth did the two of you meet?”

 

“I guess I was just curious, that's all.” Marty shrugged. “I mean, you've probably noticed, but Doc's got kind of a reputation. He always has. People think he's crazy, building all kinds of strange, dangerous devices...” He grinned and raised his eyebrows. “I mean, when you hear stories like that, what kid wouldn't want to go check it out?”

 

“Everyone except you, from the sound of it.” Rory smirked.

 

“Nah. All the kids were wondering. I was just the one who had the guts to go see for myself.” And by 'see', he meant break in and snoop around, but Rory didn't need to know that. “When we met and I saw all the cool stuff he built, man, I was hooked. He had this machine that made breakfast and fed his dog every morning – it was attached to this alarm.” His earlier angst fled to the back of his mind as he reminisced on some of the amazing things he found in Doc's lab. “And later on he built this amp... It was twice as big as me, and the sound, man, it's incredible!” He swept his arm in front of him for emphasis. “Threw me across the room! Literally!”

 

Rory didn't seem impressed by the amp or the breakfast machine. He still sat on the bed with that quizzical look on his face. “And none of the other kids were interested?”

 

“Well...” Marty shrugged. “I mean, there's snooping around Doc's lab, and then there's hanging out with him. I mean, you remember being a kid, right? Grown-ups were just uncool.” He laughed. “Once I started spending more time there, all the other kids thought I was weird. And that was fine. More cool science-y stuff for me.” That one was a bit of a lie. He was _always_ the weird one when he was a child, the short, quiet kid in hand-me-downs with the troubled family who always got picked on. He'd hung around Doc so much because for the longest time, that man had been his only friend. “Anyway, after a while he let me help him out around the lab, walk his dog, clean up his explosions, started paying me for my help. When I got older he'd share beer with me... it was a pretty good deal.”

 

“Huh.” Rory leaned back on his hands. “I wonder what drew you to him in the first place.”

 

Marty stared at him. Hadn't he already answered that? Twice? “Well, when you tell a kid not to do something, they're probably gonna try it.”

 

“If that's the case, why were you the only one who did?”

 

Okay, seriously, why did he keep coming back to that? Where the Hell was Rory going with this? “I dunno. I guess it was just about doing what I wasn't supposed to.”

 

“Are you sure?” Rory straightened up, giving Marty a very strange, inquisitive look. Marty frowned and shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, finally about to reach for the door again when Rory continued. “Maybe Doc Brown... reminded you of someone from earlier in your childhood.”

 

Marty froze, hand on the doorknob, and slowly turned to look at Rory again, completely baffled. “Say what?”

 

“It's just, that is, uh...” Rory glanced around, “you know, you grow up and your parents are telling you not to talk to strangers. But you go to the strangest one of all and just... trust him.”

 

When Rory looked up to meet Marty's gaze again, he wasn't sure how to answer, so after a moment Rory kept talking.

 

“It's just that, well, kids are naturally kind of untrusting, so you'd think that maybe if you... maybe you knew someone as a kid that Doc reminded you of.”

 

Marty opened his mouth to answer, but no sound came out, because he could figure out how he was supposed to react to that. Rory was usually a pretty quiet and reserved guy, always edging forward hesitantly before making any rash decisions. Now suddenly he was jumping to huge, wild conclusions about Marty's life with only a speck of information.

 

“...Okay. Rory. _Look.”_ Marty strode over to his own bed, across the room from Rory's, and sat down to look him straight in the eye. “This is _Hill Valley_. We're a Podunk town with a tiny college. We're not some kind of science-y epicenter. The only person who lives here who's anything like Doc is... well, Doc.” He stood up from the bed and brushed himself off. “Who is probably waiting for me downstairs, so I've got to go.”

 

Rory scrambled to his feet. “He wouldn't have to _live_ here--”

 

“Don't know when I'll be back,” Marty talked over him, heading for the door. He'd had enough of Rory's sudden craziness for tonight.

 

“--just be visiting, is all--”

 

“Go ahead and turn the light off when you go to bed, I'll--”

 

Rory grabbed his arm and held firm. Marty whirled, looking his roommate straight in the eye. For the first time since they'd met all hesitation was gone from his eyes, replaced with a serious, fiery determination uncharacteristic of the careful, quiet Rory he'd come to know.

 

“Marty,” Rory said slowly, “look at me. Think.” He narrowed his eyes. “Do you really not remember me?”

 

“ _Of course_ I remember you. You're my roommate.” Marty yanked his arm away. “What I don't remember is you ever acting crazy like this!”

 

Rory stared at him, then sighed and turned away.

 

“...yeah,” Marty muttered, eyeing his friend warily before reaching for the door again. “See you later.”

 

He stepped into the hallway and slammed the door behind him, storming toward the stairwell with a frustrated sigh. What the hell had just happened? He liked Rory, he really did, but that whole episode was just creepy. Definitely not the sort of thing he wanted to deal with after finding out about...

 

Marty stopped at the top of the staircase, gaze downcast. He sighed again, leaning against the railing. He could remember his psychiatrist very clearly now, though strangely enough Marty couldn't recall his actual therapy sessions. He could remember Dr. Rector's gentle, confident tone and how he always seemed to know just what to say to alleviate Marty's fears and frustrations. He was a plain man, the very picture of ordinary, always in a suit and tie with his dark hair and close-cut beard neatly combed and well-groomed. Looking back, seemed like a... counterbalance of sorts. He was something in life anchored in normalcy that could offset Doc and the wacky shenanigans he and Marty would have together.

 

It was a bizarre sensation, knowing for a fact he'd been seeing the shrink his whole life while simultaneously knowing he'd never met the man before. He pinched the bridge of his nose as the thoughts refused to reconcile themselves.

 

Strange... Marty suddenly realized that whatever mental problem he'd written into his own history, it had woven itself into his life without disrupting much else. He still had Doc, he still had his music, he still had Jennifer... heck, he made it into college, so he still had his education. Even being crazy apparently couldn't tear those away from him.

 

Come to think of it, while he could now recall his psychiatrist and the accusations of insanity from his peers and family, Marty realized he still couldn't remember what he'd actually done to make them think that. Should he remember actually being crazy? Or were crazy people even aware of their own odd behavior? People called Doc crazy, too, but that's because he was a genius – or was that the crazy talking?

 

Marty started down the stairs, sorting through the memories in his mind as he did so, trying to push his headache away by making sense of what he was remembering. Schizophrenia... that word kept coming up. Which one was that? Was that the one with multiple personalities? Was he going to suddenly start acting like someone else? Come to think of it, now that he'd replaced his alternate-timeline self, he already _was_ acting like someone else... in a way. But he was still Marty McFly. That wasn't how it worked, was it? Or maybe schizophrenia was something completely different...

 

“Martin?”

 

A woman's voice broke into his thoughts as he rounded the landing. He paused and gazed down the next flight of stairs, watching as she quickly climbed up to meet him. Her hair was a bright, fiery ginger offset by her pale skin, and her form-fitting sweater and short skirt showed off a very nice pair of legs. Marty quickly remembered he had a girlfriend and brought his gaze up to meet her eyes just as she reached the landing. She gazed at him, her eyes wide and filled with wonder and scrutiny, before she leaned forward and began to inspect him more closely.

 

“Uh, just Marty is fine,” he said, taking a step back, his voice echoing through near-empty concrete stairwell. “Nobody really calls me Martin anymore.”

 

“It _is_ you...” She pressed her lips together, looking a little... shocked? Women were hard to read. Particularly strangers. “Do you remember me, Mar-- Marty?”

 

“Uh...” He blinked, trying to place her. A gorgeous face, a body to match, _and_ a sexy accent to boot? He definitely would have remembered if he'd seen her before. “Sorry, um, don't think so.”

 

Her expression fell. “Amy Pond,” she urged, her voice tinged with sadness. “You were nine years old.” She reached forward, fingers brushing the side of his face. Marty tensed at the touch. Nine? Well, that explained why he didn't remember her for her looks. Still, the name was unfamiliar.

 

“Doesn't ring a bell.” He ducked away from Amy's hand and shuffled around her, giving an awkward wave as he made it to the next flight of stairs. “Sorry, but uh, my friend is waiting for me. I've got to go. We'll catch up later.”

 

She offered no protest when he turned and bounded down the stairs. He passed through the dorm lobby without incident. It wasn't too late at night by college student standards, but it was still Sunday night, not a time you'd see many people hanging around. He stepped outside and spotted the DeLorean parked against the curb.

 

Doc was leaning against the passenger side, wearing one of his loudly-patterned button-down shirts. He looked up and smiled as Marty came closer, but it didn't reach his tired eyes. “Marty,” he called, straightening up, “how are you feeling?”

 

“Doc,” Marty called, opening his arms and hugging his friend, “am I glad to see you!” He pulled back after a second, clapping his hands on Doc's arms and shaking his head. “It's been a weird night.”

 

“I can imagine.” Doc frowned. “Have you had any further difficulty discerning between your proper memories?”

 

“Not even that!” Marty threw up his hands. “I mean, yeah, my memories and stuff, but then Rory goes nuts on me--”

 

“Who's Rory?”

 

“My roommate,” Marty said quickly with a wave of his arm, speaking so quickly it was difficult for his brain to keep up. “Out of nowhere he starts asking all these weird questions about me and you. I mean, yeah, I guess that's not so nuts since a lot of people wonder about us. Okay, wait, no, that sounded really wrong.”

 

“Marty, I--”

 

“He's all, I would never have befriended you if you didn't remind me of someone else!” Marty swept his arm in Doc's direction. “Which is _stupid_ , of course I befriended you because I already did! Because you're _cool_ and you build cool stuff, so why shouldn't--!”

 

“Marty.”

 

Doc placed firm hands on his shoulders, and Marty stared at him, finally noticing how... somber he looked. The rest of Marty's ramble dissolved in is throat and he swallowed it back down. While it was true that Doc had mellowed out since he'd become a husband and father, he was still the type of guy to approach the world with wide-eyed, energetic curiosity. Whenever Doc was this serious, there was a reason for it. Marty steeled his expression.

 

“I fear that your recollection issues might be an unforeseen consequence of time travel,” Doc said quietly. “There is a lot you and I need to discuss, but this isn't the place. Let's head back to my lab.”

 

“...Yeah, sounds good.” Marty nodded as Doc circled around to the driver's side. He opened up the passenger side door and stepped back, continuing to talk as he ducked under the gull-wing door and settled into the seat. “But you know, maybe there was another memory thing tonight. When I was coming down to meet you, this hot chick I've never seen before insists we used to know each other when we were kids.” He reached up for the loop handle to pull the door shut. “And when I say I don't remember her she gives me these puppy dog eyes, like I just stole her purse or something. What am I supposed to--”

 

Marty stopped, tugging on the door's handle, but it wouldn't shut. He turned to his right to inspect the hinge and came face to face with his history professor, standing beneath the door. Doctor Smith had his hand braced against it, holding it open, and a wild grin on his face.

 

“Hi, Martin!”

 

“Bwuh – dah – D-Doctor Smith!” Marty sputtered, scrambling back toward Doc. “What are you doing?”

 

“What am I doing?” Doctor Smith leaned forward, bracing himself on the doorframe. He began to inspect the car's interior curiously. “What are _you_ doing, running off at this time of night? You've got class tomorrow-- ooh, look at that!” He leaned into the car, crawling forward, stretching across Marty's lap and placing his hands on either side of the gearshift. Marty gritted his teeth and pressed back against the seat, looking to his left to catch eyes with Doc.

 

“What the hell?!” Doc cried, staring wide-eyed at Doctor Smith. “Get out of my car!”

 

Doctor Smith shifted, then twisted his neck to stare at Marty, lips pursed. “You heard the man. Get out of his car.”

 

Marty stared at his professor, dumbfounded. He opened his mouth to reply but couldn't find the words. Why was everyone acting crazy tonight? Was there something in the water?

 

“Marty,” Doc hissed, hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white, “who is this guy?”

 

With a glance between the two Doctors, Marty muttered, “Uh, Doc, this is my history professor, Doctor--”

 

“Hello!” Smith turned back toward Doc. “I'm the Doctor. Pleased to meet you and your fancy radio.” He grinned at the time circuits display, then glanced behind the seats at the Flux Capacitor. “And look, a nightlight!”

 

Doc's expression darkened. “Get out of my car _._ ”

 

Doctor Smith ignored him and shifted a little, reaching into his pocket to pull out a silver penlike object and pointing it at the flux capacitor. It made a shrill noise, its tip shining a green light at the piece of tech for a moment. “Oh, that's brilliant, just brilliant. This explains so much.” His grin broadened and he gave a giddy little wiggle.

 

“ _Get out of my car.”_

 

“Not everything, of course,” Doctor Smith mused, twirling the pen in his fingertips. “Still some pieces of the puzzle that don't quite fit, but I-- _”_

 

Doc snatched the pen from his hand.

 

“Hey!” Doctor Smith's head snapped up and he glared hard at Doc. “Give that back!”

 

“Go get it!”

 

With a flick of his wrist, Doc sent the pen flying past Marty and out onto the sidewalk. Doctor Smith scrambled backwards out of the car, kneeing Marty in the side as he stumbled back out onto the pavement and scanned the ground for the little metal device.

 

“Oh, jeez,” Marty mumbled, hopping out of the car to help him search, “sorry, but, uh... you were being kind of...”

 

“ _There_ you are,” Doctor Smith cooed as he picked up his pen and tucked it back into his jacket pocket. “Thought I'd lost you. Crisis averted!” He straightened up and brushed himself off, grinning. Without warning he draped his arm across Marty's shoulder, forcefully steering him back toward the dorm. “Now, let's get you back upstairs so you can get a good night's rest.”

 

“Hey!” Marty ducked out of Doctor Smith's grip. “Listen, I was kind of in the middle of something.” He shuffled back toward the car. “So I'll see you in class tomorrow, okay?”

 

The grin melted from his professor's face. “Martin, go upstairs and get some rest.”

 

“I will! I just need to go for a drive first.”

 

“You're American, haven't you got a car of your own? Drive in that.” Doctor Smith's expression darkened. “This one isn't safe.”

 

Marty grinned, ducking back into the DeLorean. “It's safe, trust me. A lot of stuff has been happening lately and I just want to clear my head, okay? I need this.”

 

“What you _need_ ,”Doctor Smith said slowly, stepping forward, “is to _get out of the car,_ go upstairs, and get some sleep.”

 

“I'll get plenty of sleep. I promise.” Marty reached up and grabbed the door's handle. “I'll be back in time.”

 

Doctor Smith's expression tensed. “That's what I'm afraid of. Martin--”

 

Marty pulled the handle, slamming the door shut and settling in. Nope. Not tonight. He had enough bizarre shit going on today and he wasn't going to deal with a frantic teacher on top of it all. He'd defuse that bomb tomorrow in class. The DeLorean pulled away from the curb as Marty relaxed into the seat.

 

“So... your history professor. Interesting guy.” Doc clicked his tongue, focusing on the street ahead as he spoke. “University's getting a little desperate, I take it?”

 

Marty smirked and closed his eyes. “Just drive, Doc.”


	5. Stick to the Facts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rory investigates the office of psychiatrist Dr. Rector, but it's the information he wasn't looking for that ends up being the most important. Nine years later, Doc and Marty have an open discussion about Marty's altered memories, and from the confusion a new possibility becomes apparent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *kicks in door*
> 
> SURPRISE, BITCH
> 
> BET YOU THOUGHT YOU'D SEEN THE LAST OF ME

**May 17, 1977**

**8:04am**

Doctor Rector's office was almost as tiny inside as it was on the outside. The clinic was solely a psychiatric practice, with only one doctor at that, so it had little need for the advanced equipment Rory was used to seeing at a twenty-first century hospital. Beyond the still, quiet waiting room, a short hallway snaked around the building leading to the rest of the facilities. It was clean and simple, with comfortable chairs and a touch of an "old west" flair; There was stylistic use of old ranch equipment and black-and-white photos dotting the walls. Rory would have almost called it "retro" if, well, he wasn't currently walking in that retro time period.

Rector himself was the very picture of a stereotypical psychiatrist. He was a slender man, smartly dressed and well-groomed with his dark hair and beard cut close to his face. He had a quiet and confident air about him as he spoke. His eyes were intense and alert, like may psychiatrists Rory had met, quietly taking in details and diagnosing the world around them. Rory had gotten more than enough of that from Amy's doctors growing up.

Still, overall, he was surprisingly welcoming and friendly to the "inspector" who had come to call.

"I'm afraid I wasn't prepared for a surprise visit," Dr. Rector admitted as he led Rory down the hall to his office, giving a low chuckle. Rory stayed beside him, returning the chuckle with a forced smile and a nod.

"Yes, well, uh, that's sort of the point, you see." He glanced at the doctor a moment, then ahead down the hall. "Can't have you sprucing the place up last minute, right?"

"Nothing of the sort," Dr. Rector gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "I'm just afraid I have an appointment very early today, so you won't have my full attention for much longer. I'd offer to let you sit in but, well, I'm sure such a glaring breach in confientiality would be an instant failure in your eyes."

Rory nodded. "Right. Good that you, uh, remember that." Even when he was supposed to be inspector of the day, Rory was still a nurse. Even though Dr. Rector had no way of knowing his ruse, the man's sharp gaze made Rory feel like the man was seeing right through him. "I won't be long. This is more like a, uh, check-up than a full out inspection." He kept his eyes off the doctor's, instead gazing at the scenery around them. It was easier to keep calm and pretend to be in charge that way.

"Of course. You're a busy man, you can't stay long. We'll get everything we need in short order." Dr. Rector stopped in front of a door, gesturing up and down the hallway with a sweep of his arm and a warm, welcoming smile. "You'll find everything is up to par. In fact, my little facility far higher than the national standard for mental health."

"Good to hear," Rory said with a nod, following Rector's gesture to gaze down the hall. He wondered where to even start with his investigation.

"You'll have nothing but good things to report to your superiors."

"I certainly hope so." Of course, between himself and Dr. Rector, Rory figured "good things" had two entirely different meanings.

There was a moment of silence as Dr. Rector opened the door, gesturing for Rory to follow him in. "In the meantime, can I provide you anything? You sound like you could use a hot cup of tea."

"Heh." Rory smirked and shook his head. "No, thank you." In actuality, Rory'd been so shaken up by the disappearing boy he'd met earlier, he didn't have much of an appetite. He'd nibbled on some eggs and toast from the nearby diner and managed to down a mug of tea, but his stomach threatened to bring it back up at any moment. The boy's strange, unreal features, the desperation in his voice… even the memory sent chills up Rory's spine. He would definitely need to bring it up when he met with the Doctor again.

"Of course." Doctor Rector led Rory into his office and offered him a seat as he moved behind his own desk, leaning back in his chair, that warm smile ever present on his face. "We do have time before my eight thirty. Tell me exactly what you want to know about my clinic."

Sitting across from the doctor, it was more difficult to avoid that uncomfortable eye contact. Rory folded his hands, keeping his gaze fixed on a spot in the desk. "Well, you know. Just tell me about your practice. And methods and… things. Brag a little."

Dr. Rector chuckled at that. "Very well."

As it turned out, Dr. Rector definitely had nearly twenty years worth of bragging rights. In addition to his medical license, he also was a licensed therapist, thereby condensing the role of both therapist and psychiatrist — both counseling and medication. Rector's primary focus was cognitive behavioral therapy, the modification of destructive thoughts and behaviors. In more extreme cases, Dr. Rector might use medication to relieve symptoms, but he spent far more time raving about his therapy skills and relaxation techniques.

All in all, it sounded like a standard practice. Rory had been hoping Dr. Rector would let something slip about Martin McFly, but he seemed far more interested in talking about himself.

Just when Rory was getting to think he'd never get out of there, a buzzing sound from Dr. Rector's intercom cut him off.

"Doctor," came the buzzing voice of his young secretary, "your eight-thirty is here."

"Send him in," he replied, flashing an apologetic smile at Rory. "I'm afraid we're going to have to cut this short, Mr. Williams. Can you see yourself out?"

"I can. It's all right," Rory said, standing up and clutching his briefcase, offering his free hand. Dr. Rector's handshake was tight and firm, and after some brief formalities Rory was out the office door, passing the next patient on the way. He stopped and turned his head, watching as the young man here to see the doctor disappeared into the office.

Rory lingered a moment more, glancing up and down the hallway, making a rough guess where the records room might be. More likely than not the records were stored near reception, which would make rooting through the files a touch difficult without being detected and thrown out. With that in mind, he started back toward the entrance, eyes lingering on the Old West photos and knick-nacks that lined the hallway as he passed them by.

One made Rory stop in his tracks.

Two men - one young, one old - stood on either side of a clock tower skeleton, dressed in historical garb. For a moment, he thought his mind was playing tricks on him, but no; The young man in the photo had a face that was all-too-recently burned into Rory's memory.

There was some writing on the matting:

_Unknown. Eastwood and Brown at the Clock Tower. 1885. A History of Hill Valley, 1850-1930. Hill Valley, CA: Courthouse Publishing, 1934. 115._

Rory swallowed down a lump in his throat, gazing at a hundred-something year old photograph of the boy he met this morning.

He glanced up and down the hallway once more before pulling his BlackBerry from his pocket and readying the camera.

* * *

_Page 115._

Rory couldn't exactly show the photos on his phone to a librarian in the 1970's, so he copied down the citation onto a scrap of paper and from there she'd been delighted to help. It hadn't taken her long to find the book, and Rory had the rest of the day to waste before the Doctor came to get him. He could afford to do a little resarch on Eastwood and Brown in the meantime.

Right there, page 115, was the same photograph that had been staring him down at Dr. Rector's office - the same face that had looked to him in wide-eyed desperation that very morning. Rory frowned, inspecting the image closer. The face was the same, most definitely, but something about it seemed less.. unsettling. This morning something about him seemed like he'd come right from Uncanny Valley, but the face in the ancient photograph seemed as normal as can be. Maybe it was one of those things that didn't communicate on film, like trying to photograph the Grand Canyon or something.

He turned his gaze to the accompanying text in the history book, and balked.

_Not much is known about the young hero Clint Eastwood, who courageously took down Mad Dog Tannen in a gunfight without firing a single shot..._

"Clint Eastwood," Rory muttered, testing the name on his tongue as it to test if it were real, lips stretching into a smirk. "Seriously?"

_...before plummeting to his death that same day in his efforts to stop a train robbery. (SEE: Eastwood Ravine 24, 297)_

Plummeting to his death. Well, in Rory's experience, death wasn't exactly a dealbreaker if you wanted to pop up a hundred years later, though he imagined his circumstances weren't exactly common. The text made no mention of descendants - in fact, it seemed Eastwood's only connection to Hill Valley was the blacksmith Emmett Brown, and details on him were scarce. He'd lived in town for about a decade with his family before they all disappeared without a trace.

Rory leaned back in his chair, smearing his hands down his face and giving a heavy sigh. He idly wondered if perhaps he'd seen a ghost, but if then, Eastwood's "ghost" sure as heck hadn't been dressed like someone from the nineteenth century.

Another hour of perusing the text amounted to nothing. Frustrated, tired, and hungry, Rory finally put the book with the reshelving and trudged back outside for a well-deserved lunch break. _Rory. Doc's lab. The rip._ Eastwood's desperate words echoed in his mind again, but despite such an obvious clue to... something, Rory couldn't make heads or tails of it, and his research led right to a dead end.

"Excuse me," a voice called behind him, but Rory paid it no heed.

He made his way back toward the diner. A meal and some tea would help him think. Maybe there was something he was missing - a detail he overlooked.

"Excuse me, young man, can you spare a moment?"

If all else failed, he could just take his findings to the Doctor and let him make sense of it. After all, it's not like clues would just reach up and tap you on the -

"Young man!"

A hand grapsed Rory's shoulder. He yelled in surprise, ducking out of the grip and whriling to face his assailant, ready to take a fighting stance. The man before him looked immediately apologetic, raising a hand to presumably calm any retaliation.

"Ah... I'm sorry to have startled you. I assure you, I meant no harm or disrespect!"

The stranger was an older gentleman, dressed casually in a loudly-patterned Hawaiian shirt and light slacks. But despite his eye-catching outfit, it was his face that held Rory's attention.

"You... you're..." Rory started, throat dry as he looked the man over once more, eyes wide and mouth agape. The blacksmith. But... no, no, there was no way. That would be too easy. It couldn't possibly be him, could it?

Rory's mind was reeling as Emmett fished into his pockets for something. Emmett Brown. The blacksmith. On the same day he saw Eastwood's ghost. Could it be? Rory swallowed again, glancng across the courthouse square to the alley where he'd met Eastwood this morning.

Rory was jerked from his thoughts as Emmett took his hand, and made no protest when the man dropped a shiny pocketwatch into his palm. "Now, young man, if you could please wind this..."

"Uh..." Rory looked down at the trinket in his hand. It was still ticking, so it hadn't run out of power just yet. "Yeah. Sure."

As he did so, Emmett produced an identical watch and wound it as well. "Excellent, excellent. Now!" Emmett moved beside him, holding up his watch face-up alongside Rory's. "Can you please confirm for me that these two pocketwatches are perfectly in sync?"

Well, this was certainly turning out to be quite the day, wasn't it? It was really saying something that this felt like the most normal thing to happen to Rory today. He inspected the two watches - the times were set exactly the same, right down to the second hands moving steadily around the face. "Perfectly in sync, yeah. Why am I-?"

"Excellent! Hold this, and stay right there." Emmett held up a hand, as if that would help persuade Rory to stay in one spot. From there, he backed up along the sidewalk until he was several meters away.

"Uh..." Rory looked to his watch again, then back up to Emmett. "Should I be doing something?"

"Just stay right there! Don't move!" Emmett looked down to his watch again.

Rory frowned, then decided to glance around. No X on the ground, nothing around that looked like it might be some kind of death trap ready to spring. Another glance at the watch as the seconds passed. "Is something supposed to happen?"

"I'll explain everything in a moment!"

Rory wondered if he had anything better he could be doing right now, but no. He really didn't.

A few minutes ticked by on the pocketwatch before Emmett approached again, holding the two clocks side-by-side once more. "Now, see? Look at that. The two watches had been in sync before, but now..."

The watches were still set to roughly the same time, but now Emmett's watch was slightly slower - the second hand of Emmett's watch now lagged just barely behind Rory's. Emmett stepped away, leaning back on a nearby building, gently rapping the edge of his watch with the back of his hand.

"Two identical watches, set to the same time, both wound completely - but step away with one, and soon enough, they fall out of sync. What does that tell you?"

Rory frowned. "Shoddy craftsmanship, I imagine."

Emmett nodded. "A perfectly reasonable conclusion. Now, what if I told you that I've been able to replicate these same results several times, with several different kinds of clocks, all over town?" He tapped the face, brow furrowed in thought. "Imagine if this wasn't an effect of the clocks themselves, but some sort of outside factor. What would that tell you?"

Rory clicked his tongue, glancing off to the side nervously, remembering what the Doctor had told him yesterday. He wondered if that was the conclusion Emmett was going for. "Well, I mean... if the clocks are working fine, then..."

He watched Emmett for a reaction, trying to gauge when he'd said too much. This was the sort of thing humans weren't supposed to be able to perceive, right? Maybe he shouldn't tip Emmett off. The man seemed midly distracted, still focusing on fiddling with his pocket watch.

Rory continued carefully. "Then I guess it might mean that time is... uh..." Twisted? Warped? Before he could find the word, Emmett looked up, focus now entirely on Rory. That wild, erratic expression softened into something gentler. Concern? Interest? In fact, to Rory, it looked like... hope.

"Go on," Emmett urged quietly.

"Time is... uh..." Rory held up his hands, miming a stretching motion. "Warped?"

"Warped," Emmett echoed, pulling a small notepad from his pocket, eyes brightening in excitement as a smile stretched across his face. "Twisted. Stretched. Call it what you like, but the end result is that in various locations throughout town, time is inconsistent. And inconsistently inconsistent, at that." He flipped the notepad open, showing a simple drawing of the town square. "I apologize for the crudeity of this drawing, but..."

Rory took the notepad gently, inspecting the sketch and the overlapping lines Emmett had drawn in another color. On another page was a similar drawing, but the lines had moved. The next page was much the same.

"It's moving," Rory noted, remembering what the Doctor had told him. "And you're mapping it out?" This strange phenomenon that humans supposedly weren't even able to notice, and Emmett not only noticed but managed to _record_ it?

"It's exhausting work," Emmett admitted. "But you know, I've brought it up on occasion with others - just making conversation, you see - and of everyone I've talked to, you're the first one to come to the same conclusion as I have."

"Well, I mean, it's not the sort of thing most people really think about." Rory offered the notepad and fobwatch back to Emmett as he spoke. "You look around and can't really see time as a thing, right? Not everyone's got a solid understanding of Special Relativity. I mean, I can barely wrap my head around it, myself."

Emmett's expression brightened even more. "You've read up on Einstein?"

"He... I mean, this stuff comes up in books I read sometimes. Science fiction and all that." And in real life, but Rory figured it best not to mention that. "Never actually sat down to learn it."

"I must say, I find that surprising. You seem like a brilliant young man." Emmett dropped the items back into his pocket before he offered his hand in greeting. "Emmett Brown."

And there was the confirmation, the answer to one quiestion that only raised a million more. Rory didn't even know how to begin broaching the subject, so for now he simply opted not to.

"Rory Williams." He matched Emmett's warm smile, taking his hand.

* * *

**SEPTEMBER 14, 1986**

**9:45pm**

In the time he'd been back, Doc had made a few improvments to the garage that doubled as his home and lab. Though larger than the average garage - it'd once been part of a mansion, after all - It was every bit as small and crowded as Marty remembered, though these days the space was better utilized and organized. Moreover, some walls had been constructed inside to give the boys their own space and allow Doc and Clara to conduct experiments safely away from the living area.

After Marty's most recent time-traveling escapade from 1931, when he'd seen the Brown residence in its current state, he'd been hit with simultaneous surprise and nostalgia - after all, thanks to conflicting memories, it was both the first time and the umpteenth time he'd seen it like this.

That had been months ago. These days, in any timeline, that garage was a second home. Doc, Clara, and even the boys were almost always just a phone call away.

Then again, no phone call could compare to being with them in person. Here, with one talkative child trying to keep his attention as the other one climbed all over him. with Clara fussing over him like a second mother, with Doc... _here._

The car ride had been mostly silent. Doc hadn't immediately pressed the issue, and Marty just... neded some time to sort out his thoughts. After arriving, with the comfort of Doc's family, Marty let himself get distracted with the familiar and (relatively) mundane for a little while. After a day like today, after... _everything_ he'd learned today, it was nice to just dial it back and just let things be.

Yet Marty had come here for a reason, and he knew it. Doc knew it, and Clara knew it, too. When things had settled down and they'd put the kids to bed, the three of them had sat down together in their sitting room to finally just... talk.

Or try to, at least. As energetic as Doc was, he was patient - as was Clara. The silence hung heavy in the room as Marty tried to calm the storm of thoughts and anxiety swimming in his heart and mind.

"I don't... even know where to start, you know?"

Clara smiled gently. "I've been told the beginning is a good place for such things."

Marty chuckled. "I'm not even sure I can figure out where that is." He sighed, combing a hand through his hair and hunching over on the couch, resting an arm heavily on his knee.

"Would you prefer I leave? I know you and Emmett have far more of a history together. Maybe-"

"No, no." Marty lifted his head to smile at her. "It's all right. I'm glad you're here. It's nice to be able to talk about this with more than one person, you know?" He paused, glancing over to Doc. "No offense."

"None taken," Doc answered, looking a little proud as he nodded to his wife. "She'll be an excellent addition to the conversation. I find Clara's insight invaluable, particularly when I can't seem to keep my own train of thought straight." He paused to take a drink from a cup of tea - he'd been drinking a lot more tea these days - before his tone turned more somber. "Can you tell us about what happened today?"

Marty didn't answer right away. He smiled when he saw Doc and Clara look at each other with so much love in their eyes. Even if this time travel business had screwed up Marty's life, he was glad to see it'd granted his friend a happy ending of his own.

Sill back to the subject at hand. "Man, what _didn't_ happen today?" Marty leaned back, smearing his hands down his face as he tried to get his thoughts in order. The revelation about Marty seeing a psychiatrist, the weird behavior of his roommate, that strange hot chick in the stairwell... "It started in the afternoon, I think. I was at the arcade with Rory, and I was so sure I had a history paper due in Doctor Bradley's class..."

"...But Doctor Bradley hasn't worked there all semester," Doc finished, picking up where Marty's sentence trailed off.

"Exactly. But for that second, I could remember taking the entire semester with him." He frowned, giving another sigh. "And then I remebered Doctor Smith and his class, all at the same time. It was just like every other time my memories changed, only way more intense, you know? The headaches were a hundred times worse, and I couldn't figure out which one was real. But you said yourself, Doc: You haven't been messing with time lately."

"Indeed, I haven't." He rubbed his chin in thought. "And I can't fathom a scenario where either of us might go back to alter the course of your school itinerary, of all things. Seems rather petty."

Marty shrugged. "I mean, if nothing else, I guess we could... go back and check?"

"We could, theoretically, and possibly even create the very mess we try to unravel. But then again, I've yet to encounter such a truly stable time loop - it'd be fascinating to experience, if it were truly possible for something to simply cause itself in endless repetitions throughout every timeline..."

Marty watched as the wheels started turning in Doc's head, allowing a small smile. He missed this.

"...And, indeed, if such a stable time loop were to exist and we _fail_ to perpetuate it simply by knowing of its existence and opting not to continue, does it cease to exist, and by doing so, continue to exit by causing us to never know of it in the first place?" Doc sat back, gaze distant. "I wonder if-"

"Emmett," Clara broke in gently, nodding toward Marty.

"I - yes, of course. Apologies."

Marty, however, wasn't fazed.

"If I might make a suggestion," Clara added, looking thoughtfully down at her own teacup, "I know in the past - and elsewhere - your adventures together took place in a relatively controlled space. From what Emmett's told me, when things went off track, it usually involved the intervention of a third party somewhere along the line."

"A human error," Doc mused aloud.

With a coy grin, Clara raised an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"

Doc paled, looking a bit sheepish, quickly sputtering to correct himself. "I - Yes, well. Clara, you must know, falling in love with you was the finest experimental error I've ever made."

She laughed, giving a nod of approval, before looking back to Marty. "What I'm saying, Marty, is that if this is indeed something related to time travel, I'm not certain you and Emmett could be the only possible suspects."

Marty regarded her with confusion, and he could see Doc doing the same. "You're... not suggesting there's another time traveler out there, are you?" He looked to Doc. "Have you met any others?"

"Not at all," Doc answered carefully, "but I have entertained the possibility before. After all, given the vast expanse of space and time... Clara, are you sure?"

"I'm not sure of anything. But you said yourself: You've no reason to change Marty's professor."

Marty frowned, gaze low as he considered that. "Yeah, but why would anyone else? Especially to replace him with..."

_Haven't you got a car of your own? Drive in that!_

"Doctor Smith..." A realization began to dawn on Marty. He slowly brought his gaze up, locking eyes with Doc. "Before I got back in the DeLorean with you, Doctor Smith, he... I thought he just wanted me to stay at the dorm. Because I have class tomorrow."

Marty watched Doc carefully for a reaction as he continued. "But it wasn't that. It wasn't about keeping me at the dorm. He was adamant about me _not_ getting in the DeLorean." He swallowed a lump in his throat. "He said it was dangerous."

At that, Doc's eyes widened, the sudden revelation clear in his expression. "I see. And... now that I think about it, he seemed awfully interested in the Flux Capacitor."

"...He did." Marty felt a chill rise in the pit of his stomach. "I thought he was just being weird. I mean, I thought he was just a weird guy in general. But he forced his way into the car and looked right at it, didn't he?"

"You and I both." Doc frowned. "What was it he said? That it 'explains so much,' right?"

"He knew how my parents met."

"He knew _when_ your parents met."

"He knew my _name,_ " Marty muttered, feeling suddenly sick. "Oh, my God. Doctor Smith, of all people? He's the time traveler? He's the one screwing around with my memories?"

Doc frowned. "Marty..."

"Why, though? I mean, why make himself my history teacher? Why change something like that? Why do I _remember_ it changing if I wasn't even there?" He could hear his own voice growing frantic as each question raced from his mouth more quickly than the last. He combed a hand back through his hair, as if clearing his vision might also clear his thoughts. "If he's already changed it, why would he even _need_ the DeLorean? Do you think he's dangerous? Is he - this isn't gonna be like another Hell Valley, right? What if -"

"Marty." Doc's tone was more forceful now, enough to cut through Marty's panic, but still warm. He reached across the coffee table to put a comforting hand on his arm. "We don't have all the facts yet. We can't even be certain your professor actually is a time traveler. Any conclusions we make right now are pure conjecture."

Marty felt Doc gently squeeze his arm, and the tension eased just slightly. "So what do we do?"

"I don't know, but we don't panic. Not yet." Doc offered a hopeful smile. "After all, in my experience, visitors from the future tend to have only the best intentions. Statistcally speaking."

The literal meaning of Doc's words hit Marty first, before the affectionate tone and underlying implication settled in as well. It was enough to bring a small smile to Marty's face. "Yeah. I guess so." He took a breath, trying again to clear his thoughts. "This is so surreal. I mean, if that's what's happening, at least. But I've never been on _this_ end of a time travel adventure before."

"That we know of, anyway," Doc added with a thoughtful look.

Marty glanced at him in confusion, then shrugged. "Okay, yeah, I guess so."

"Well, for now, I think it might be best to do away with guessing." At some point during the conversation, Clara had gotten up to procure a pen and paper, and was already writing out a heading with her impeccable handwriting. "Let's write down what we know for certain, and see what conclusions we draw from there."

"Excellent idea," Doc said as he and Marty moved in closer to huddle near Clara, as she neatly divided the paper into sections: One for pieces of history Marty remembers differently, one for other facts they could confirm.

The day had been a rollercoaster of emotions and revelations. Marty was still reeling from it all, and had no idea what to expect from any of it. His life had changed so much in the past few months - both his past and his present - and apparently it wasn't showing any signs of stopping.

Still, he watched Doc and Clara as the three of them discussed the facts and the absolutes, he couldn't help but feel hopeful that it all would turn out all right. No matter what changed in the past or the present, some things always stayed the same. Marty McFly may be different, an outsider, even an outcast, but he took comfort in knowing that no matter what, he'd never be alone.


End file.
